Confessions of a Former Queen Bee
by one.long.melody
Summary: Brittany Crust thought she had it all: money, popularity, sophistication, style. Ten years later, she finds herself broke and on her own, with only her quick wit and devoted young daughter by her side. When a stranger from the past comes to their aid, things take a most unexpected turn. Rated 'T' for future content.
1. A New Beginning

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teenage Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** The is not my typical fan-fiction. Actually, I haven't written fan-fiction close to two years now. Not because I dislike it, or anything like that - I was just geared toward pursuing more original stories. When I was writing fan-fiction, it was for books, as anyone who's looked at my profile page knows. While writing for cartoons is something I haven't done in years, and never expected to do again, this story was just begging to be written, thanks to late night viewings of _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ on Hulu, as well as an idea I've had on the back burner of my imagination for nearly ten years now. I hope those who read this enjoy it, and feel that I've done the characters justice, particularly Brit. She was always my favorite character, and I did a lot of research on her while writing this. Any familiar words or phrases were taken from the Brit Crust profile section of the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ Wikipedia page, as well as the TV series.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1:**

 **A NEW BEGINNING**

"Mommy? What's wrong? Are you okay?"

The small voice roused Brit Crust from her thoughts. If there was one thing that could make her smile, and bring meaning back to what had become a comparatively dreary and pointless existence, it was her daughter, Madison. The little girl had inherited her father's blue eyes and wavy locks, but was blessed with a deep caramel complexion and her mother's own delicate features. The only thing distinguishing her from either of her parents were her oversized, rose colored glasses. When the optometrist informed Brit that her daughter would require glasses, she made sure that Maddie had the hippest, most expensive pair of eyeglasses out of every pre-schooler in Tremorton. Whether or not Maddie traded in her glasses for contacts when she got older, it was clear by the time she was three that she was going to be a real beauty someday. Brit only hoped that the life to which her daughter was accustomed would serve as no indication of any future bearings. She couldn't bear to see such a sweet and innocent mind tainted by the sort of convictions she and her cousin had once sworn by.

"I'm fine, darling," Brit answered presently. "Everything is just peachy." It was the fashion diva's go-to expression whenever things were _not_ fine, when they were just about as bad as they were going to get.

"No you're not," Maddie said accusingly, defiance weighing heavy in her child's voice. "You always say that, but you never _are._ You're always crying. Even talking on the phone and opening the mail makes you cry. I hate when you're like that, and I'm tired of driving around. I miss my friends, and my school, and my room with all my toys. I want to go home."

Brit sighed, more out of physical exhaustion than frustration. "We aren't going home, Honey Bee."

"How come?" The idea that they were going away for a long time had occurred to Maddie earlier. Sitting in the middle of her mother's huge antique bed, she'd watched in awe as Brit raced around the room, pulling clothing out of closets and drawers, and tossing everything into a large suitcase laying open on the bed. Now, Maddie was desperate to hear the truth. She wouldn't be able to continue on this journey with her mother until she had.

"It's just going to be the two of us for a while," Brit said. "Just until Mummy can get her head together and figure things out."

"What you gotta figure out?"

Like where we're going to live, and what I'm going to do for money. "Oh, you know, love. Just things. The sort of boring grown-up stuff that isn't worth filling your precious head with."

"So…how long 'til we _do_ go home?"

As much as she loved her daughter, Brit's patience was hanging by a thread. Why did the child always require such precise answers? "I'm not sure, Maddie. That's one of the things I need to figure out. Now, no more questions, all right? Mummy needs silence if she expects to think straight."

"Sure, Mommy."

If Brit had taught her daughter to do anything well, it was how to be patient. Then again, Maddie might not have been so willing to listen, if she didn't have her tablet. It was one of only a few valuable items that Brit hadn't hocked. Everything else—her beautiful ballroom gowns, her husband's collection of cashmere sweaters, all the furniture, even her wedding and engagement rings—had been either seized by the bank or sold. By the time Brit and Maddie were standing in the entryway of their spacious home, preparing to walk through the intricately carved mahogany doors for the last time, all they had left were the clothes on their backs, and whatever they'd been able to cram into two large suitcases.

While Maddie sat quietly in the front passenger's seat, completely immersed in a game on her tablet (something with robots…for some reason, the girl was _obsessed_ with robots), Brit considered the events which had brought them here, to a future she would have sooner died to avoid than make the best of. But she had Maddie to consider now, and determined to make life as cheery and pleasant as possible for her, regardless of their financial situation—or lack thereof. If it wasn't for little Julie Thatcher, and the embarrassing condition that had plagued Brit throughout her childhood, then the charismatic queen may have mingled in the company of some very different people in high school. For a moment, she imagined how much different her teen years would have been, had _Tiff_ rejected her, and told all of their peers that she and Brit weren't cousins at all, or even related. How she was just some dweeb—was that even a word kids used anymore?—who followed Tiff around, thinking it made Brit look cool, and fool herself into believing she actually belonged.

Ouch.

 _Oh, Jenny. That must be how we made_ you _feel, isn't it?_

When they'd not been staring down their noses at their less popular acquaintances, or concocting new schemes against Jenny Wakeman, the Crust cousins had spent the majority of their high school years flirting with the object of one another's desire. The agreement that neither would ever become seriously involved with the blond-haired, blue-eyed stud known as Don Prima had remained intact between the girls right up until senior year. Not unlike the former craze of popular girls dating unpopular boys, the news that Brit Crust and Don Prima had become exclusive spread like wildfire through Tremorton High. By the time she discovered that the rumors were true, and that her cousin had in fact betrayed her in the worst possible way, the idea of leaving her hick town to attend college suddenly seemed very appealing to Tiff.

It had been eight years since the trendy twosome were last seen in each other's company. According to their mutual colleague, Pteresa McCurdy, the falling out between the Crust cousins had proven beneficial for Tiff. Without Brit to constantly emulate, Tiff had decided to follow the advice of her parents and guidance counselor, and apply to college. The school she chose was one that many considered the highest-ranked fashion institute in the country. Because it had the added benefit of being the furthest from Tremorton, Tiff hadn't been burdened by the possibility of running into Brit and Don. Just three months after earning her bachelor's degree, Tiff landed her dream job as editor-in-chief of _Fashionista Magazine._ So while Tiff was off living her life in a big city, deciding between fashion do's and don'ts, Brit lingered back in Tremorton, fulfilling her own destiny as a trophy wife.

Tiff's was not the only life that had been affected by Brit's actions. Although they'd attended the wedding, Brit's parents were against her and Don's marriage from the start, and had all but _begged_ them not to go through with it. Brit was too young, too impulsive, and far too conceited to ever consider being someone's wife. She lived life as a way to flaunt herself, and everything money could buy. As for Don, he was certainly not the kind of man Rohan and Maya Crust would have chosen for their daughter. Not when that man was clearly more interested in the waviness of his hair and the shininess of his shoes than his wife's happiness.

The thought of turning up at her parents' door, defeated by life and by marriage, with a six-year-old in tow, had crossed Brit's mind more than once. But she wasn't going to resort to that. Not yet, at least. It would be too much like giving up, and admitting that she'd failed. She could almost hear the voices of her mother and father chastising her: "We told you so."

Brit wished more than anything that she had taken their advice to heart. The next thing she knew, she was on the phone with the plastic surgeon, who was telling her he was sorry, so sorry, that there had been complications during the surgery, and her husband had slipped away.

Don's death had marked not only the end of his marriage to Brit, but the end of Brit's days of being popular. While she had received an outpouring of sympathy and support from their friends, it was only a matter of time before those she'd considered loyal subjects to her royal standing began to drift, and eventually ceased all contact with her. Even without her exceptional cleverness and charisma, it would not have taken her long to fathom why the social status on which she'd thrived for so many years had become obsolete. For the first time since she was fourteen, Brittany Lacroix Crust-Prima found herself completely and utterly alone. Her friends were either married, in committed relationships, or busy with their careers. While everyone else was off playing tennis and attending wine tasting events, Brit was obliged to remain at home, fulfilling her own obligations, and adjusting to life as a single parent.

As hard as it was for Brit to admit, her and Don's marriage had been nothing short of a selfish attempt to uphold their statuses as queen and king of Tremorton High. Unlike Brit's parents, Don's were in total favor of the marriage. It didn't matter that the couple was so young, or that they were using each other as a stepladder. The important thing was that Brit was popular, and that by marrying her, Don would be enhancing not only his popularity, but the prominent standing of his family in the community. His parents had completely doted on him, the way they now doted on Maddie, who was as much the apple of their eye as her father had been. They had been there, sitting anxiously in the hospital waiting room, anticipating word on the condition of their daughter-in-law and her newborn baby. Don Senior and Pristine Prima were the first other than Brit to set eyes on their new granddaughter, with her big blue eyes and shock of black hair, huddled amongst the other babies in the nursery. The proud grandparents had both agreed that Maddie was positively the most beautiful baby they had ever seen. "If Don were here," Pristine gushed tearfully, "he would be prouder than when he was crowned prom king."

Brit welcomed the nostalgia flowing through her now, as she passed a sign which read 'You are now leaving Tremorton…come back soon!'. She continued down the road that would eventually bring them into the city. With little idea of where they were going, or what they would do when they got there, Brit wished—not for the first time—that she had shared with Don the news of her pregnancy prior to his surgery. The lawsuit Brit and her in-laws had filed against the surgeon, as well as the life insurance policy Don had taken out on himself just after the couple married, had helped Brit considerably through the next six years. But the money was not enough to maintain the sort of lifestyle with which she was acquainted. Had she chosen to live more simply, the money could have lasted her and Maddie the rest of their lives. At barely twenty years old, Brit had not been mature or responsible enough to handle such a large fortune, and squandered it on things the average person could have easily lived without.

They drove on in silence for a while, the only sound being Maddie's occasional giggle or amused response to the source of entertainment in her hands. But even the game, with all its vibrant characters, witty sound effects, and in-app purchase offers that Brit had conveniently disabled, was not enough to distract from a rumbling tummy.

"Mommy, I'm hungry. When we gonna eat?"

"Well, it is dinner time…long past it, actually. All right," Brit relented. "The next restaurant we see, we will stop and have something to eat."

"Hooray! Can I have a cheeseburger?"

"Of course."

"With French fries? And a strawberry milkshake?"

"You may have anything you like, darling."

Brit knew she had to start being more firm with Maddie. Until she found a way of earning some money, Brit could not afford to be thrifty. Particularly when thriftiness was what had caused her to find herself in a state of such dire circumstances. For once in her life, she would have to stand on her own two stylishly-clad feet, and find a way to help not only herself, but the child who both admired and depended on her. Still, it was their first day on the road, and they had been traveling for hours. Both were exhausted, and Maddie had probably been hungry for a while now. She just hadn't wanted to add to her mother's concerns by saying so. It was part of what made the daughter of Brit Crust and Don Prima such an easygoing and unspoiled child.

True to her word, Brit pulled into the parking lot of a typical-looking diner some ten minutes later. As she and Maddie climbed out of the car, Brit saw that theirs was the fanciest in the lot. The diner was the kind of place Tiff would consider 'lower class central'. Even Brit's late husband would have sooner walked deliberately into traffic than dine in a place that served its customers on cheap china plates and not the glistening silver platters he'd preferred.

As they entered the diner, Brit's gaze never strayed from the back of Maddie's head. The little girl's long, wavy tresses bounced in unison to each of her skips, as the pair approached the hostess. Had she been more interested in their surroundings, or even a less observant parent, then Brit might have noticed the striking young businessman, sitting alone at a corner booth, reading a newspaper, and the intense way he was watching her and her daughter.

"Two, please," Brit told the hostess. "Prima."

By the time they had been seated at a comfy booth, and their waitress had appeared, Brit was feeling decidedly guilty. What little appetite she'd had had fled like someone wearing a bad outfit. The waitress was a pretty young woman of presumably college age, with a warm smile and hair done up in pigtails. Both her hair and demeanor made Brit think once more of Jenny Wakeman, the robot girl whom the Crust cousins had once pranked and bullied at their disposal.

Glancing at the waitress' name tag, Brit saw the girl's name was Kristale. Kristale? Really? Brit wasn't even sure how to pronounce it. Was it Krist-all or Krist-ale? Was that the actual spelling, or had the girl simply made it up, the way Pteresa had made up the 'P' in her name?

The former queen bee suddenly felt very old.

Brit was far too engaged in her obsession of whether or not twenty-six might possibly be considered middle-aged—oh, the horror!—that Krist-all—Krist-ale?—found herself asking for the second time what her very beautiful—though clearly very distracted—customer would care to drink.

"What?" Brit fluttered her pretty onyx eyes in what many men would consider charming confusion. "Oh. Just water, please."

"Of course. And for you, sweetie?"

Maddie was busy coloring the picture on her placemat with the crayons the hostess had given her. But she was not so absorbed in her activity that she could not spare a smile for the person resembling her favorite superhero. "Oh, that's easy! I'm gonna have a strawberry milkshake. My mommy promised I could."

"Is that right?" Kristale beemed at Brit, who smiled back, though rather uncomfortably, and resorted to drumming her slim gloved fingers on the edge of the table.

Maddie's answer, which consisted of the same over-the-top enthusiasm reminiscent of her mother's cousin, sent a brief but powerful wave of remorse sweeping across Brit's heart. "You betcha!"

"Okay." Kristale scribbled quickly onto a little notepad she'd fished from the pocket of her apron. "One water and one strawberry milkshake, coming up." She stuffed the notepad back into her pocket and hurried off.

Kristale was not gone for more than a few seconds when a voice behind Brit caused her perfectly sculpted eyebrows to raise in speculation: "May I suggest the cranberry-mango iced tea? I hear it's quite popular."

Perplexed by the sudden transformation of her mother's facial features, Maddie stopped coloring her picture to examine the face so identical to her own. "Mommy, what's the matter with your eyebrows?"

"My eyebrows? What about them?"

"They're all pushed up. The way they are when you're scared. Are you scared of something, Mommy?"

"Only of heights," Brit said. "And of my favorite fashions going out of style." She added this last part simply for Maddie's benefit. It was clear from the little girl's reaction that she yearned for reassurance.

Moments later, Maddie's concerns were put to rest, as a tall glass containing her favorite beverage was placed before her. "There you go," Kristale said. "Complete with complementary whipped cream and a cherry on top."

The little girl's blue eyes widened intently behind her light pink lenses.

"What do you say, Maddie?" asked her mother.

"Thank you!" With that, Maddie picked up the milkshake and took a huge gulp. As she set the now half empty glass back down on the table, Brit and the waitress smiled at the mass of pink milk and whipped cream sticking to Maddie's face. "Best. Milkshake. _Ever,"_ she proclaimed.

Kristale beamed. "I'll make sure to pass along your compliment to the milkshake machine."

"Mechanical appliances are a lot like robots, you know." Maddie spoke matter-of-factly, the way she did whenever the excuse to discuss her favorite topic presented itself. Her knowledge of robots, coupled with her glasses, gave her the outward appearance of an exceptionally young junior scientist. "Except appliances don't have feelings, and they can't talk."

"I see." The puzzled look on Kristale's face suggested she didn't encounter children like Maddie very often. "I had no idea."

"It's true. I read it in an issue of _Not-So-Popular Mechanics for Kids."_

"Do you want to be a mechanic when you grow up?"

"Either a mechanic or a trapeze artist. I don't know for sure yet. Mommy says I got lots of time to figure it out."

"Madison Giselle Prada Prima!" Brit scolded. "What have I told you about your incessant chit-chat? Do you not realize that you are _bothering_ this poor girl?"

"Actually," Kristale broke in, "I find the conversation quite intriguing. If I wasn't on the clock, I'd love to stay and participate."

"You wouldn't say that if you value your ears." Even as she said it, Brit was unable to hide her amusement. "She will talk them right off."

"I wouldn't mind. But I've gotta make it look like I'm working. Otherwise, my boss will accuse me of fraternizing with the customers." Kristale rolled her eyes. Then, lowering her body so that her face was on level with those of Brit and Maddie, Kristale continued in a hushed tone: "He thinks of himself as principal of a high school, and runs this place accordingly, even though almost everyone who works here is at least twenty years old. So," Kristale concluded, as she normalized her voice and posture, "what can I get you ladies?" Once again, she whipped out her pen and paper from her pocket. She pressed the pen to the paper, determined to give the impression she was doing what she was paid to do.

"Uh…" Brit thumbed swiftly through the menu. "I'll have the turkey Cobb salad."

"Turkey Cobb…got it." Kristale scribbled madly on the paper. "And what sort of dressing would you like with that?"

"Blue cheese. Light."

"Of course. Can I get you a refill on your water?"

"No. No thank you. Actually, though, I would like to try the cranberry-mango iced tea. I hear it's…good."

"It is. That's what makes it the most popular of all our iced teas." Kristale turned then to Maddie. "And for you, miss future mechanic-trapeze-artist?"

"I want a cheeseburger. With French fries. And lots of ketchup!" Then, remembering her manners, Maddie added humbly, "Please."

Brit smiled in approval.

"I'll be back in a bit with your orders," Kristale said, right before bolting in the direction of the kitchen.

Following Kristale's departure, Maddie announced she needed to use the restroom. Since it was within visible distance of their booth, Brit gave her permission to go alone. "Be sure to wash your hands," Brit reminded, as she watched her daughter head toward the women's restroom.

"I will!"

"Nice kid you've got there," the stranger said.

Brit made no attempt to turn her head as she addressed him. If he expected her to look at him, then he could darn well come over to her booth and introduce himself. "Thank you."

"Yours?"

"Who else's daughter would she be?"

"Good point. I was watching the two of you earlier, right when you walked in. I must say, seeing the way you are with her surprised me."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed. I never pictured you being the maternal type. I had no idea that you even _liked_ children."

Brit sensed her cheeks flushing with hot irritation. How dare he—this person she didn't even know!—make such personal assumptions about her, and her relationship with her daughter! On second thought, forget about him coming over to her booth. She had every right to march right over to his, and beat some manners into that cocky know-it-all with her designer handbag!

"And just what, exactly," Brit ventured politely, "would lead you to conclude I could not possibly be fond of children? You and I are neither friends nor acquaintances, you understand. Nor have we ever exchanged words prior to this moment. Therefore, how can you possibly know a thing about me?"

"On the contrary, my dear. You and I _have_ spoken…though it has been a while. Nine years, as a matter of fact."

"That is impossible. I'm quite certain I would recall—"

The sound of the stranger rising from his booth resonated behind Brit, the echo of his footsteps quickly following. Suddenly he was there, standing over the erstwhile queen of high school, his smile utterly sincere, his teeth straight and perfectly white, with skin that was utterly flawless.

"Hello, Brittany. You're looking well."

For several seconds that felt more like an eternity, all Brit could do was stare with wide, disbelieving eyes, up at the distinguished gentleman in the stylish suit and tie who was no longer a stranger to her.

She gasped, her hand flying to her cheek in a dramatic gesture. "Sheldon?"


	2. The Fashionista and the Fry Cook

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teenage Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** Before I present chapter two, I'd like to take a moment and thank everyone who read, reviewed, and faved this story. It always makes me nervous and a little anxious when I make the decision to put myself out there - especially creatively - so it truly means a lot to know you guys are enjoying what I've written so far. You are all wonderful! :)

Although Brit, Sheldon, and Maddie do not appear in chapter two, they _will_ be returning in chapter three. The following chapter introduces a pairing I feel is a bit controversial (even though both characters are of legal age), and that I'm fairly certain no one else has ever tackled before. I think what inspired me was simply that I liked how the names of the two characters sound together. At the time I began writing this chapter, the book I was reading dealt minorly with a romance between two people of the same age difference, which contributed to my decision as well.

I hope you guys enjoy this next chapter, and please accept my apologies for the length - I know it runs slightly longer than the first chapter. I felt the first draft was a little shorter than I would have liked, so I added two extra scenes.

Happy holidays, everyone! I'll see you all in 2016. ^ ^

-melody

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 **CHAPTER 2:**

 **THE FASHIONISTA AND THE FRY COOK**

The telephone on Tiffany Crust's desk was ringing loudly from underneath a pile of papers. Just because she helped to run one of the top fashion magazines in the country did not mean she was organized. At first glance, she appeared to be a remarkably stylish woman who knew how to get things done. The brusque attitude that had frequently gotten her in trouble during high school, and earned her a reputation as a bully, came in extremely handy in the working world. But behind closed doors, complete and total disarray reigned supreme. A high stack of fashion magazines balanced dangerously on one side of the desk. On the other, three huge portfolios depicting _Fashionista's_ most recent photo shoots were still in the process of receiving Tiff's professional approval.

With one sweep of her freshly manicured hand, she flung the papers away from her bedazzled phone. In the process, she accidentally hit the pile of magazines, and sent them toppling to the floor in a rustling heap. Pressing the handset to her ear, she used her freehand to stab forcibly at a button on the phone's keypad. "Talk to me, girl."

The voice which resonated from the other line was that of Chloe, Tiff's young assistant. "I'm sorry to bother you, Ms. Crust, but there's a young man here to see you."

"What's he want?"

"He won't say. Only that it's urgent. What should I tell him?"

Tiff glanced around in dismay at the cluttered space. What if the man was a photographer asking to schedule a meeting with her? She had told all three to give her until the end of next week to go through their portfolios. She'd yet to make good on her word, but fortunately had a knack for working well under pressure (the all-nighters she'd pulled back in college were proof of that), so she wasn't worried.

 _Dang, girl! Why you always wait 'til_ Friday _ta tidy up your office?_ "I got a couple minutes," Tiff replied calmly. "Might as well send 'im in."

"Yes, ma'am," Chloe said.

The intercom went silent. A few moments later, a knock sounded from outside the door. "Come in."

The door opened to reveal a young man, dressed in a red button-down shirt and black jeans. A broad smile was plastered to his handsome face, and behind his dark eyes, there flickered an impish gleam that enhanced his youthful appearance. The way he was staring at Tiff made every muscle in her petite body tense, and her limbs feel as though they'd turned to jelly.

"Shut the door," she ordered.

"With pleasure." Her visitor kicked the door shut behind him.

Stepping further into the room, he pulled Tiff into his arms. She responded instinctively, cupping his face in both her hands and pressing her lips solidly again his own. Slowly, he guided her lithe body down onto the desk's surface. He proceeded with a series of delicate kisses, which began at her neck and ended in the hollow of her throat. She murmured something inaudible, her fingers combing through his sleek black hair.

The young man whispered in her ear. "I missed you, shortcake."

It was hard to say if it was those sentimental words, or the pressure of those strong fingers gently massaging into the muscles of her back, that prompted Tiff to draw back. Disengaging herself from the safety of that embrace, she strode hurriedly to the other side of the room. She went on to execute a little twirl (even in six-inch pumps, her balance was as steady as a ballerina's), and direct her attention to her amorous intruder. Placing her hands on her shapely hips, she demanded sharply, "Tuck, what you doin' here? You _know_ what people gonna say if they see us together!"

"Sure I do." Tuck's tone was nonchalant. "They'll say 'Hey. There goes Tiff Crust, arm in arm with the kid brother of that guy she went to high school with. Don't they make a nice couple.'"

"They'll say stuff, all right…like how I bought the cradle!"

"What are you talking about? I'm nineteen."

"An' I'm twenty-six. Do the math, kid."

"I'm _not_ a kid!"

"'Course you're not."

And he wasn't. Not really. Just because Tiff had known Tuck only very, very casually when he was nine, through his older brother, whom the Crust cousins had sooner scoffed at than socialized with, was no reason to label the now grown man. Tiff didn't mean for what had transpired between herself and Tuck eleven months earlier to go this far. She wasn't looking for anything permanent when they'd spent the night together at her posh apartment. She'd liked him more than well enough—it was obvious from the way she'd kissed him. The fact that she'd been heavily intoxicated had only played a small role…of that she was very certain. Since that night, she'd had time to rethink her actions, and the consequences that were the results of those actions. That her feelings for him, this man who had saved her from making a very bad—and possibly fatal—mistake, were entirely genuine.

More than seven years Tiff's junior, Tuck had a high school diploma and worked full-time as a fry cook over at Donny's Dogs. He was far from the sort of man the chic and skillful businesswoman would have pegged for a future partner. But he was a nice guy, one who liked her for herself, and not for her career or the amount of money she made. In Tiff's world, Don Primas were a dime a dozen, but men like Tuck were rare, seeming to come by only once or twice in a lifetime. On Fridays when he got his paycheck, he would call her up, asking if he could take her to dinner and a movie. On Saturday evenings, they would go dancing, or to the park to watch a concert. Tiff almost always took Tuck up on his offers, and each time he responded with adequate enthusiasm. Hopping into the old Cadillac his brother had helped him to restore, he made the two-hour drive from his parents' house in Tremorton, and into the city where Tiff lived.

Every time the two lovers saw each other, an expression of pure adoration would sweep across Tuck's face. To him, Tiff was the most perfect, beautiful, smart, and totally amazing girl he'd ever met. He wanted to take care of her, he said, and live in a house with a white picket fence, a dog, and six kids. At first, the fashionista was appalled by the aspirations of such a young man. Not only did she prefer to focus on her career, but how were those dreams ever going to come true with him earning minimum-wage at a fast-food restaurant? Besides that, she liked her independence. She had no desire to be a full-time mother and housewife. She'd go crazy! Eventually, Tiff realized these desires were simply part of Tuck's personality, as well as his sweet, boyish charm. As a result, she found herself becoming even more attracted to him. He was someone she enjoyed spending time with, despite his habit of always opening doors and pulling out chairs for her. On warm nights, if he was able to talk her into taking a moonlit stroll through the park, and she got cold, he would take his role of gentleman one step further, and drape his jacket over her shoulders.

What woman _wouldn't_ want a guy like that?

 _A woman like_ me, Tiff thought regrettably. _He needs a_ girl. _One his own age who can party it up 'til all hours. A girl more than five-foot-nothin' who can hold 'er liquor without passin' out._

That was another problem right there. Tuck wasn't old enough to drink, and wouldn't be for more than another year, making the difference in their ages all the more obvious to Tiff. But what she saw as a huge obstacle did not appear to concern Tuck in the least. Maybe it was because most girls his age were too tall for him ( _"It can't be easy for a guy that short ta find a date"_ ), or he just happened to be drawn to ones with a fondness for Goth eyeliner. Whatever had brought the two polar opposites together was as mystifying as the secret behind Jenny Wakeman's superhuman strength.

"Come on, Tiff," Tuck said then. "Don't be like that." Shoot. He was giving her those dang puppy dog eyes again. If there was one thing Tiff couldn't resist, it was those huge innocent eyes of his. "I came all this way just to see you."

"Oh, Tuck, quit beggin'. You invite me out ev'ry Friday night. When's the last time I turned ya down?"

Tuck grinned sheepishly back at her. "Honestly? I can't remember. But I wish you'd let me pick you up from work once in a while. Not just your place. Or that I could take you back to Tremorton and introduce you to my family. I know they'd like you. _I_ like you, Tiff—a _lot_ —and it's pretty obvious you like me. What's age got to do with it?"

The longing in Tiff's eyes spoke the truth more honestly than words ever could. "Tuck, I'm sorry. I jus' don't see us goin' any further than where we are right now."

"Then let me prove it. Let me _prove_ I can be the man you need me to be. Look!" Tuck reached into his back pocket and brought out his wallet. From inside, he produced a wad of one-hundred dollar bills. He waved them in front of Tiff's face. She wondered how anyone could be so careless as to carry such a large amount of money around with them. "I've saved up more than five-hundred dollars in the past four months," Tuck declared proudly. "By the end of the year, I should have enough to finally move out of my parents' house." His smile deepened. "I'll be able to come out here and be with _you!_ Wouldn't that be great?"

Tuck's feelings for Tiff were far more intense than those of any boy she'd dated in college. But those feelings were likely to change. If not now, or in a few weeks or months, or even a year from now, then eventually. Tuck would one day grow up, and when he did, he would likely abandon the perfect little fantasy he'd created for himself and the woman he claimed to love. Tiff had been hurt once already by someone she loved. There was no way she was going to open herself up to that sort of pain ever again. She would let Tuck down easy, even if it meant losing him forever. Tell him that she cared for him as a friend—a dear friend—but that was all. That she was sorry for letting things go on for as long as they had. If she could change the past, she would never have drunk herself into a depressed stupor at the Flying Fish Restaurant, because it was New Year's Eve and she was alone. Tuck might not have recognized her, sitting slumped over the bar, surrounded by six or seven empty shot glasses, and insisted that he drive her home. He would not have taken it upon himself to escort her upstairs to her apartment. He would not have witnessed her tearful breakdown, and she would never have spilled her heart to him, describing what an awful thing it is to have those you love betray you. He had listened to her, holding her close as she'd sobbed like a child into his shoulder, going on and on about what a rotten, boy-stealing traitor Brit was, and what a loser Don was for choosing Brit over her. Tiff was comforted by Tuck, who told her it was okay, that it would all be okay, because she was Tiffany Gucci Crust, and that nothing and no one could ever break her.

"If I have dinner wit' you," Tiff said presently, "then you _swear_ you'll call next time?"

"I was gonna do that today," replied Tuck, "but worried my number might make your co-workers suspicious."

"So your solution was ta turn up at my office instead?"

"It worked, didn't it? And your secretary has no idea how old I am."

"Maybe you right. So…where ya wanna eat?"

* * *

Tiff and Tuck sat facing each other at a small, circular table in the Flying Fish Restaurant. Considered the best seafood dining spot in town, it was located just a few miles outside Tremorton—a matter of which Tiff was uncomfortably aware. Nevertheless, she'd forced herself to remain perfectly composed. She humored Tuck, whose heart was evidently set on sharing a candlelit dinner with the object of his affections. From the moment they'd sat down, he'd done nothing but talk on and on about how his life had been forever changed that fateful New Year's Eve. How what he'd felt for other girls could never compare to his feelings for Tiff. As for the fabulous fashionista, she felt herself growing more and more uneasy with every compliment the young fry cook paid her. Not because she didn't appreciate what he was saying, and certainly not because she disliked the attention. She listened intently, soaking up every compliment like a sponge. All that prevented her from articulating any sentiments back to him were the gnawing, vexing, guilty apprehensions that had first appeared when she'd found herself developing deep feelings for someone so much younger than herself.

"You seem really distracted tonight," Tuck observed. "Is it this place? Should I have picked a different restaurant?"

"Nope. I'm cool." Tiff set down her fork, which she'd been using to mindlessly push the uneaten pieces of grilled salmon around her plate. To assure Tuck that there were no hard feelings, Tiff slowly reached across the table for his hand. He smiled, taking a moment to gaze lovingly down at her small, delicate hand, whose nails had been painted a unique combination of blue and purple neons.

Their tender moment was cut short by a sudden burst of hip-hop music coming from inside Tiff's designer handbag. "Would you s'cuse me a sec, honey-love? I just gotta take this."

"Go ahead, shortcake. I'm not going anywhere."

Snatching her hand away from Tuck's, Tiff dove head-first into her handbag. As she searched frantically for her phone, she began tossing various items—her wallet, a tube of lipstick, a hair comb, a packet of facial tissues, hand lotion, gum—onto the table. The ringtone was blasting at full volume by the time Tiff located her phone in the very depths of her handbag.

"It's Pteresa!" she exclaimed, and immediately clicked the 'receive' button. "Hey, girl, what's the—whoa! Slow your roll! I can't understand a word you sayin'! What? No, I'm not busy. I was jus'"—she glanced over at Tuck, who was watching her expectantly—"havin' dinner with a co-worker. Wassup?"

Tuck waited until Tiff was completely engrossed in her conversation, before letting his hopeful smile crumble into a disappointed pout.

"What?" Tiff shouted into the phone, loud enough so that several diners, as well as a few waiters and waitresses, stared in her and Tuck's direction. "What you mean Sebastian got arrested? What happened?" Silence. And then: "He did _WHAT?!_ A classy guy like that? No friggin' way! Huh? Girl, ya _gotta_ speak up if y'all expect ta be heard! How long they gonna hold 'im for? Is that all? Well. Maybe that'll teach 'im not ta be so dang _stupid_ next time." When Tiff spoke again, her tone was normal, and she was more in control of her emotions. "T'morrow afternoon? Nope, I got nothin' goin' on. Sure. I'd love ta hang wit' you an' the li'l rugrat. I hope my godbaby r'members me. It's been a while since I seen 'im. Okay. One-thirty's perfect. Hang in there, girl. Try an' get some sleep. I'll see y'all t'morrow. We'll have lunch at Mezmer's or somethin'. Aiight. Love ya, too. Later."

"What was _that_ all about?" Tuck asked, baffled, as Tiff placed the phone back inside her bag.

"That was my girlfriend," she replied despondently, as she started gathering up her discarded belongings from the table. "Her husband got caught stealin' from his job. Now he's in prison, an' she's left cleanin' up his mess."

"That's awful."

"Tell me about it. They're only holdin' Sebastian overnight, but Pteresa's a total mess. We're gonna let 'im stew all day in the slammer an' have ourselves a li'l chill session. Poor Sebastian Jr.'s only five. He's prob'ly got no clue _what's_ goin' on."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Tiff flashed her Tuck an appreciative smile. "Thanks. But Pteresa don't want people bein' all up in her business."

"Sort of like how you don't want people being all up in _your_ business…or rather, _our_ business. Am I right, Tiff?"

The stylish editor-in-chief bristled beneath the harsh accusation of the fry cook. "Sorry 'bout that, sweetie."

"It's fine. I get it."

But it wasn't fine. That much was clear from the crushed expression on Tuck's face.

* * *

The drive back to Tiff's apartment had been full of tension, and she experienced a strange blend of sadness and relief when her pumps finally touched solid pavement.

"Call me this weekend?" she asked, hope etched in her voice.

"Maybe. I don't know yet," Tuck said rigidly from his place in the driver's seat. "I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my brother. I won't be back 'til Sunday evening. Monday morning I've gotta be up at four, so I can be at Donny's by five. If there's time, then I'll try and call you."

 _If there's time. I'll try._ The same words Tiff had heard a thousand times from a long string of now ex-boyfriends. Why had she expected Tuck would be any different? He was only nineteen, after all. Come to think of it, that stuff about visiting his brother was just an excuse. It had to be. Why else would he have waited until now to bring it up, when only two days before he'd said he would be staying the weekend with _her?_

"Thanks for dinner." It was all Tiff could think to say under the circumstances.

"Don't mention it." Those words, and the tone in which Tuck delivered them, made it seem like he was literally telling her not to mention the evening at all, as though he wanted nothing more than to erase it from his memory.

"Tuck, I—"

"I gotta go." He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. "It's a two-hour drive back to Tremorton, and Friday traffic's a _beast_ this time of night."

"Then I guess you better get on home, then."

"I guess."

"G'night, Tuck."

"'Night, Tiff."

Tiff's view of the cherry red Convertible driving away was quickly obstructed by the formation of tears in her eyes. She remained on the curb a while longer, waiting to see if Tuck might have a change of heart and turn around. When he didn't, she wiped the tears from her eyes, oblivious to the black smudges that came away on her fingertips.

* * *

A long time had passed since Tiffany Crust was alone on a Friday night—eleven months, nine weeks, fifty-two days, seven hours, fourteen minutes, and thirty-two seconds, to be precise. But who was counting? Certainly not Tiff. The very idea of sitting by herself in her room, mourning what had turned out to be just another failed relationship, staring hopelessly at the clock on her phone, was more pathetic than she'd care to admit.

For lack of anything better to do, and determined to numb the belief that she was a total loser, Tiff rose from the bed. She sauntered over to the dresser, squatting down on the floor so that she was staring at the bottom drawer. Taking hold of the knobs, she pulled open the drawer. Inside she found two things: a pair of patent black fingerless gloves, and a magenta cotton beanie with cat ears sewn onto it. As she studied the items, Tiff felt the layers of her anger toward her cousin finally begin to melt away. True, Brit had hurt her, but deep down Tiff knew that Brit's intentions—no matter how selfish—were not based on any malice. For the Crust cousins, popularity had been as necessary as air, or low fat macchiatos. The value of their social statuses, and the value of their relationship to one another, were indistinguishable. In choosing one, Brit had inadvertently wounded the other.

 _I did the same thing. Ta save my reputation, I ended up hurtin' Tuck._

Tiff brought out two of the many thousands of garments that had helped her sustain the majority of her high school popularity. She pulled on the gloves with ease, flexing her slim fingers as she did so. Next, she tugged the old beanie down onto her head. She was shocked by just how juvenile and silly they made her feel. Like one of those sad-faced older women, whose dignity is both lifted and lowered by dressing and acting like a teenage girl. Yet these gloves and this hat were mementos of a past Tiff had tried for years to forget, or at the very least put behind her. She'd been a bully once, and a self-certified prankster to boot. But it was her broken bond with her cousin that had brought her here, to a life she loved and was immensely proud of.

There was something else stashed away in the drawer. Before now, Tiff had never so much as glimpsed the item, let alone acknowledged its existence. Unlike the hat and gloves, her high school yearbook symbolized only her worst memories. She had no idea when she'd last had the desire to pick it up, and relive the heartache that had been the bane of her senior year.

Faces she knew, and signatures she'd long since forgotten, leapt out at Tiff from the instant she turned the first page. Images of Pteresa, Don Prima, Jentrice, and everyone she'd ever shared a friendship with or connection to, flooded back to her in swift, jumbled flashes. Then there were those she'd looked down on, like Jenny Wakeman and Sheldon Lee. Even Brad, Tuck's older brother, was part of what the Crust cousins had referred to as 'lowly classmen'.

Then, of course, there was Brit herself. Brit, who had never treated Tiff as anything less than her equal. While all of the other classroom 'besties' had posed together on senior picture day in the hallways, courtyard, and various other sections of the school, sharing in each other's happiness and excitement, Tiff and Brit had been depicted separately; sometimes alone, other times with people from their joint posse...but never together.

As Tiff studied each photograph closely, she saw that she had not been the only one who'd looked positively melancholy. _(A good Brit word, she noted.)_ Only one photo actually showed Brit smiling. It was one of only a dozen or so colorized ones, showing Brit and Don standing together under a tree, his muscular arm around her. Above the photograph, printed in bold, capital letters, was the caption: **CUTEST COUPLE: DONALD MICHAEL PRIMA AND BRITTANY LACROIX CRUST.** Tiff remembered when they'd won cutest couple. Everyone had said it would have to be either Brit and Don, or Pteresa and Sebastian. As usual, Brit's popularity had triumphed over everyone else's. Looking at that picture now, Tiff could clearly see the crack in Brit's perfect smile. Proof that the queen bee, despite the presence of her Prince Charming, was far from happy.

Closing the yearbook, Tiff hugged it hard against her chest, as if doing so would somehow turn back the clock, and give her the chance to make things right with her cousin.

There was only one real way of doing that.

After carefully placing the gloves, hat and yearbook back inside the drawer, Tiff walked over to her nightstand, where her phone and charger were. Several years ago—she wasn't sure how many, but figured it had to have been at the peak of the mobile phone revolution—Pteresa had given her Brit's number. "Just in case you ever change your mind," Pteresa had said. At the time, Tiff had seriously doubted she'd ever use it. ("Girl, you gotta be _crazy!"_ ) But she was older now, and a whole nicer than she'd been in high school. She'd even considered reaching out to her cousin, after hearing of the tragedy that had befallen Brit and the entire Prima family. But cowardice and pessimism had gotten the better of Tiff, and she'd pulled even further away from the person she'd once considered her sister.

Picking up her phone, Tiff scrolled through the list of contacts, stopping when she came to Brit's name. _Click._ The number popped up, along with the text and call options. Having no idea if the number was still in service, Tiff tapped the option marked 'call', and waited.


	3. Of Promises and Trust

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teenage Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** Hi there, everyone! Happy New Year! I hope you all had a great time celebrating the holidays. I know I sure did. :)

Before I introduce Chapter 3, I'd like to say how much I appreciate the positive responses I received from readers in the last chapter; particularly those regarding the TiffxTuck (Tuff?) pairing. I really had very little idea how people would react, as I've never seen the pairing explored or even suggested before. But I figured I'd take the leap anyway. Their relationship is definitely going to progress, and lead to some - what I hope will be - very interesting outcomes, later on. I love drama and soap-opera-inspired storylines, which was my aim when I began this story. I hope you guys have had as much fun reading it as I've had writing it.

Again, I apologize in advance for another lengthy chapter. While restricting a story to three or four pages has never been easy for me, I have also found that, the more characters I involve, the longer a chapter or story will run. But hopefully no one minds. :) I considered cutting this chapter into two short ones, but felt that doing so would make it seem as though Tiff was being rebuffed. She is as much a central character as Brit is, and I plan to make Tiff the focus of Chapter 5. Therefore, I felt my best option would be to simply leave Chapter 3 as is.

Two more things I'd like to point out, before heading on to Chapter 3, are 1). I've made some brief changes to Chapters 1 and 2, the most notable being that Maddie now sports eyeglasses. Very few of my characters have prescribed eyewear. Being a non-glasses-wearing person myself, it never occurs to me to give my characters glasses. On the other hand, I feel that giving Maddie glasses would make her character more unique. Hers are rose-colored, in order to symbolize her innocence to the serious situation her mother is trying to shield her from, and 2). While Tiff's phone call to her cousin is not mentioned in this chapter, I shall be updating the details of it in Chapter 4.

As for now...

Enjoy Chapter 3!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:**

 **OF PROMISES AND TRUST**

"As you can see," Sheldon said, "I'm not exactly the poster boy I was in high school. Other than my immediate friends, the people from my Tremorton High days tend not to recognize me."

His sarcasm—though subtle as could be—grazed the core of what was no longer Brit's ice-cold heart. She recalled, in vivid detail, the terrible way she'd treated the fledgling engineer, and wondered how he could possibly bring himself to speak to her now.

"You, on the other hand, haven't changed at all." She could feel his eyes moving slowly up and down her body, inspecting each and every curve that had been the pleasing results of maturity and motherhood. "No. I take that back. You're even _more_ beautiful than I remember."

She blushed, and quickly lowered her gaze, hoping it would be enough to conceal the physical effect of such an intimate compliment.

"I was sorry to hear about Don," Sheldon stated. The mere mention of her late husband's name persuaded Brit to raise her head.

"We all were. We never thought…" He appeared to fumble for the right words, as most people do, whenever broaching a sensitive subject. "As young as he was, you just never expect that sort of thing. It's tragic."

Brit gave a single nod of gratitude. Nearly four years had passed since anyone had offered her their condolences regarding Don's passing. "By 'we', I suppose you mean Jenny and that Carbuncle boy."

"Would it come as a shock if I did?"

"What do you think?"

"I _think_ you could use some company. Mind if I sit?"

"In case you haven't noticed, this is a public restaurant. Customers are free to sit wherever they please."

"This feels so strange," Sheldon admitted, sliding into the cushiony seat across from Brit. "In high school, you _never_ would have invited me to sit at your table."

"I didn't invite you this time, either."

"True."

"Mm."

"You've changed, Brit. I knew it from the moment I saw you standing there at the hostess podium with your daughter."

"Well, losing a husband and having a child all in less than one year _will_ change a woman." She immediately regretted the sharp tone she'd taken with someone whose only motive was to be kind to her. "Forgive me," she said. "I didn't mean to sound so…undignified."

"It's all right. And you didn't."

"You are too kind, Sheldon." The former queen of Tremorton High smiled humbly. "I was positively _beastly_ to you and your cohorts back then. Compassion is hardly the sort of greeting I would expect from you now."

Sheldon cracked his own lopsided smile from beneath his fine dark bangs. "Still, everyone deserves a second chance. Besides," he added assuredly, "we are all equipped with the power to change. Like robots, human beings also begin life as prototypes. We undergo many phases of construction, reconstruction, and _de_ construction, before reaching the finish line. Adolescence is simply the middle of the road."

Brit was somewhat amused to see that Sheldon had never outgrown his habit of speaking like a human textbook. In high school, he'd been one of only about one-hundred or so honors students. Despite his outstanding grade point average and high-ranking status on the school's swim team, he'd never let his successes go to his head. A role contrary to that of the shy girl whose large front teeth and enormous spectacles had dubbed her the laughingstock of her entire English school district. A girl whose fondest wish had been to rise above it all, and be the one everyone envied.

"Mommy? Who you talkin' to?"

The pair steered their focus in the direction of the voice. There, standing in front of the booth was Maddie, her gaze shifting curiously between her mother and a man she'd never seen before.

"Maddie, come and sit by me," instructed Brit, patting the place beside her.

The little girl did as she was told, hoisting her small body effortlessly up into the seat beside her mother. Placing her round face in her hands, Maddie leaned her elbows on the table (the likes of which Pristine Prima frowned upon, but that Brit permitted, just as long as her in-laws were not present), and fixed the stranger occupying what was once her seat with her cool blue stare.

"Who're you?" Maddie asked.

Smiling at the miniature version of his erstwhile crush's former enemy, the man replied, "My name is Sheldon Lee. Your mother and I attended high school together."

"Sooo…you were friends then?"

Brit felt a twinge of goose flesh prickle the back of her neck and shoulders. _Oh, Maddie. How very wrong you are!_

"That's right."

 _Is he simply humoring her, or intentionally planting the seed of guilt inside of me?_

"And you must be Maddie."

"Yup."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Is it true what they say?"

Maddie furrowed her brows together. "True what who says?"

"You mean you haven't heard?" Like a spy preparing to reveal top-secret information, Sheldon lowered his voice to a hushed whisper: "That _you_ —Madison Giselle Prada Prima—know more about robots than any other kid at Tremorton Elementary."

Maddie's mouth assumed the shape of a small gum ball. "People really _say that?!"_

The chortle Brit let out was a more cordial version of the relentless cackle she'd been famous for as a teenager. "Sheldon, I _do_ wish you would refrain from filling my daughter's head with such things."

Maddie had no idea what 'fill your head' meant. Only that it sounded bad. Taking things without permission—like her grandmother's strawberry-flavored hard candies with the chewy center, for starters—was bad. So was being mean to other people. And being mean was the baddest of all bad things. Her mother had told her so.

Maddie tapped a finger to the side of her head. Funny. She didn't feel anything. Nothing but hair. Had her mother been mistaken when she'd said that the nice things people said about you filled your head? If the nice things didn't fill your head, was there another place that they filled instead? Perhaps a secret box, like the ones the people on TV and in the movies stashed under beds or on the top shelf of closets, so that whatever secrets were inside would stay just that. Secret. Maddie couldn't say for sure. Maybe being a grown-up meant you were right about only certain things, or right about other things only some of the time.

Brit was the first to notice her daughter's strange behavior. "Is something wrong, darling? Do you have a headache?"

"You really guzzled down that milkshake," Sheldon pointed out. "Maybe you gave yourself brain-freeze."

"What's a brain-freeze?" Maddie asked.

"Brain-freeze is what happens when you eat ice cream too fast."

"But it wasn't ice cream I eated. It was a milkshake. And I didn't eat it. I drank it."

"Oh." His brown eyes dancing with amusement, Sheldon met Brit's own delighted gaze. "I stand corrected, then."

Brit placed a concerned hand on her daughter's small shoulder. "If you don't have a headache, then why were you tapping your head?"

"I was looking for the things."

"Things?" Brit looked at Sheldon, who shrugged cluelessly.

"The things Mr. Lee told me before," Maddie clarified. "About me knowing more about robots than any other kid at school. You said you didn't want him filling my head. I wanted to see if what he said was in there."

Brit laughed. "Oh, sweetheart! That isn't what 'fill your head' means. It's a figure of speech, that is all."

"Figure of speech?"

"A figure of speech is a way of describing a person, a place, or a thing," Sheldon explained, "using something called a metaphor. 'Fill your head' is a type of metaphor. Your mother used it to express her concern for how knowing a lot about something might affect you."

"Is it bad to know a lot about something?"

"Of course not," Brit reassured. "It's good to know things. But sometimes being told they know a lot about something, or many things, gives people what is commonly referred to as an ego."

"What's a ego?"

"It is what causes a person to believe they are better than someone else."

"Oh." Maddie considered this. "That _definitely_ isn't nice."

"No." Brit had neither the courage nor energy to meet Sheldon's eyes, afraid he would see the hypocrisy reflected in them. "It most certainly is not." With both hands on her daughter's shoulders, Brit squeezed hard. "Which is why I _never_ want to see or hear of you being mean to someone else. I want you to always treat those around you the way _you_ want to be treated. If you ever see someone being bullied, don't ignore it. Stand up to the bully. If they're bigger than you, then find the nearest adult, and tell _them_ what is happening. Will you be sure and do that?"

Maddie nodded vigorously. "I sure will, Mommy. I promise."

"Thank you, darling." Her heart weighted down with guilt over her own past as a bully, Brit gave her daughter a hug, more in an attempt to comfort herself than to praise Maddie for being the person her mother never was—until much later.

Brit wondered if her daughter would ever completely understand the importance of such a promise.

* * *

Kristale returned, carrying a tray on which she balanced with perfect ease a turkey Cobb salad and child-sized cheeseburger with French fries. Then she spotted Sheldon. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" Her eyes darted over to Brit. "But I thought it was just you and your daughter I'd be waiting on."

"That _was_ the initial plan," Brit admitted, as Kristale served her and Maddie their food. "Sheldon and I just happened to run into each other during your absence."

"Him and Mommy went to school together," Maddie interjected.

"I'm still in contact with all of my old high school friends," Kristale replied. "It's great being able to stay in touch, even with all of us going to different colleges."

Brit cast her eyes to her salad. There was no way she could look Kristale in the eye, and with total candor relate her own sad situation to that of the upbeat younger woman. Not when she, Brittany Lacroix Crust—the girl voted 'Best Dressed' four years in a row, alongside her equally fashionable cousin, by the students of Tremorton High—had been unable to establish contact with any of her old mates, despite each and every one of them residing in the same town.

"Can I get you anything?" Kristale asked Sheldon. "Coffee? Tea?" She winked at Maddie. "A milkshake?"

Maddie postponed diving into her cheeseburger long enough to bolster Sheldon's decision. "You should get the milkshake, Mr. Lee. That's what I had. They're way better than the bowl of whipped cream I get when me and Mommy go to Starstrucks."

"Nothing for me," Sheldon informed Kristale, "thank you. I just polished off an entire plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. And don't get me started on the slice of peanut butter pie I had for dessert. I'll just pay the check and call it a night."

Sheldon gave Kristale the name of the person who had waited on him, and she said she'd take care of it. She was just about to leave, when he called her back.

"Be sure to put this meal on my bill as well."

Brit was stunned. "Absolutely not! I won't have you—"

"No, no." Sheldon raised a hand to ward off any further argument. "I insist."

Brit settled, biting her bottom lip in silent defeat.

Kristale departed, leaving Sheldon and the Primas to their dinner and discussion. While Maddie went back to her food, Sheldon devoted himself to the vision of loveliness sitting across from him.

"You really didn't need to do that," Brit said. "My daughter and I are hardly paupers."

"The idea that you were never crossed my mind," Sheldon answered truthfully. "I only wanted to do something nice for you. If I offended you, then I'm deeply sorry."

"It isn't that. I just wasn't expecting such generosity."

"Being generous is what I do. What I've always done. I like people. I like helping them. Not because I think they're impoverished, or even because I feel an obligation. I just know a good person when I see one. And you're as good a person as I've seen in a long, long time."

Was he teasing her? Trying to trick her into admitting in front of her child what a despicable person she'd once been? "Surely you jest," Brit said simply.

"It's true," Sheldon replied. "I believe it. Even if you don't."

Oh. So that was it, was it? He had been playing the honesty card, after all. "Sheldon…"

"Forgive me if I seem prying. But what are you and Maddie doing so far from Tremorton?"

"We're traveling," replied Brit effortlessly. "I thought it would be good for Maddie to learn about the world beyond McMansions and Starstrucks coffee chains."

"Mommy says she doesn't know when we can go home," Maddie volunteered.

Sheldon raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"She means I don't know when we _will_ be going home," Brit corrected. "In any case, how can you expect to enjoy the present, if you're always worrying about the future? Going from place to place, anticipating what you will find around the next corner…is such not the heart of any grand adventure?"

"I suppose it is," Sheldon agreed, if not hesitantly. "But you should never undertake any major task without first having a plan of action. What would you do if you got stranded in an unfamiliar place? What if you or Maddie got hurt or sick? What if you were robbed? What if—"

Brit was quick to cut him off. "I don't recall asking for your opinion," she said hotly. She didn't want any of what he'd said, or had yet to say, to frighten her young and impressionable daughter. Not when everything Brit had heard so far made her feel as though both her intelligence and parenting abilities were being called into question.

Maddie stopped nibbling on a French fry, the remainder of which hovered uncertainly in the air between her thumb and forefinger. She had no idea what Mr. Lee had said to make her mother so angry. Only that it seemed to have something to do with why Brit and Maddie had left Tremorton so abruptly. Did Mr. Lee know something Maddie didn't?

"What's the matter, Mommy? Why you yelling at Mr. Lee?"

"I am not yelling." In spite of her lie, Brit's narrowed glare zeroed in on Sheldon's face. "I am speaking very loudly."

"It sounds like yelling to me. I wish you wouldn't do it. I _hate_ it when you yell, Mommy."

"I've got an idea, Maddie," Sheldon said, as if trying to conserve the peace between mother and child. Reaching into the inside pocket of his sports jacket, he withdrew his wallet. "I saw some video game machines over there. How about I give you five dollars, and you can go play for a while?"

Maddie's troubled face lit up. "You mean it?"

"Sure do. As long as your mother says it's okay."

"Is it, Mommy? Can I go play the video game machines? Pleeeease?"

"It's fine, Maddie. But I don't want you taking Mr. Lee's money. He has been more than generous in offering to pay for our dinner. _I_ will give you some money to play the machines if you like."

"It's no trouble. Really," Sheldon insisted.

"That is most kind of you. But quite unnecessary. I am perfectly capable of—"

"Let me do this, Brit. It would mean a lot to me."

With a sigh, Brit relinquished her pride. "Very well. But don't give her more than five dollars. I don't want her getting spoiled."

Before Brit could say anything more, Sheldon pressed the bill into Maddie's eager hand.

"Maddie, what do you say to Mr. Lee?"

"Thank you!"

Sheldon smiled. "You're welcome, honey."

"Can I go now?"

"Yes," said her mother. "But stay where I can see you."

After Maddie had hurried off in the direction of the arcade, and once Brit had assured herself that she could spot her daughter's tiny frame amidst a group of three or four other kids, all of whom were bigger and older, Sheldon launched into the topic Brit had been dreading.

"You're in trouble. Don't deny it, Brit. You can't. Not when it's written all over your face."

"What, exactly, are you implying? That you can help us? Ride in here like some handsome prince on a snow-white horse, and whisk us away?" Brit's tone, though mocking, threatened to break. "That you can save us from the disaster I've managed to make of not just my life, but the life of my child? Is that it?"

It was the first time she had spoken so openly to anyone regarding her situation. Now that she had, her responsibility for the events that had landed her and Maddie below the poverty line hit Brit full force. She was angry with Sheldon for being the one in whom she'd confided these feelings of failure. Even more, she was angry with herself for being the one on whose shoulders those feelings weighed so heavily.

She was so angry she was crying.

Determined to do nothing to reveal she was capable of such weakness, Brit abstained from snatching a handful of napkins from the dispenser next to her. Instead, she turned her face to the side, hoping the tear she felt clinging to the corner of her eye would not roll down her cheek.

At the same time, it seemed silly to continue her fight against the current of her emotions. Pointless, even. The debt she'd managed to accumulate in only six years' time was as substantial as it was humiliating. Even if she was able to find a decent job, her earnings would never be enough to repay every penny racked up by her careless spending. It would be Maddie the bank and credit card companies would eventually go after—and that was something Brit could not bear to contemplate. Just the thought of her beloved daughter's future being burdened by her mother's own indiscretions stimulated Brit's anxieties. She surrendered willingly, letting the lump in her throat transpire into a single, high-pitched cry. The tears she'd resisted promptly broke free, streaking her rouged cheeks, her eyes stinging from the makeup she now wished with apathy was waterproof.

The sound of her male companion shuffling around in his seat alerted the woebegone widow, and she quickly composed herself. She was still dabbing the tears from her eyes with one gloved fingertip, when he appeared before her, and lowered himself to one knee, like a suitor fixing to propose marriage. Instead of a ring, he offered her a handful of napkins, along with a worried smile.

"You look as though you could use these."

With a delicate sniffle, Brit took the napkins. Setting all but one down on the table, she used it to lightly wipe the tears from her eyes and cheeks. While she did so, Sheldon continued to poise himself, watching her closely, as though to make sure she wasn't going to burst into tears again. Too embarrassed to blow her nose in front of him—especially when all he seemed interested in at the moment was staring at her—she permitted herself another ladylike sniffle.

"Are you all right?"

"Hm?" Brit did her best to appear nonplussed. "What ever makes you think I'm not?"

"You're crying. I thought perhaps—"

"I'm not crying."

Sheldon cocked his head to one side, as if to say, "That's bunk and you know it."

"Why are you looking at me that way?"

"You are many things, Brittany Crust. Smart, beautiful, sophisticated, a wonderful mother. Not to mention endowed with the most incredible set of curves I've seen since the tracks of the vintage electric train set I got for Christmas when I was ten." Sheldon paused for breath, during which he observed the deep blush as it crept its way stealthily into Brit's cheeks. "But you're also a terrible liar."

There was not single word she could offer up to defend herself from such an honest truth. Not because no such words existed, but because she felt what little strength she had left completely go out of her. She was tired of lying to herself, to everyone. Tired of pretending that everything was under control when it wasn't. She had no idea how much longer she could maintain the mindless charade she had built around herself and her daughter, before it finally collapsed.

The businessman—or whatever it was Sheldon had grown up to be—eyed Brit sympathetically. He said nothing as he reached out, and tentatively drew her hands into his. She let him, welcoming the warmth of his touch as it absorbed her completely, soothing her anxieties and quelling her fears. His smile was tender, blameless. And his eyes—his eyes were the most alluring shade of brown she'd ever seen, like coffee mixed with sweet cream.

"I'm not asking for any details," he said, after a moment's silence. "That's your business, and your choice to tell me. All I want is for you to give me a chance."

"A chance?" Brit's shaky breath caught in her throat.

"A chance to prove that I can help you." Sheldon squeezed her hands. "Please. None of us are leaving here until you accept my proposal."

"What sort of proposal?" She had to admit she liked the forcefulness with which he addressed her. It reminded her a little of Don…except he wasn't Don. He was Sheldon Lee, a former geek who now resembled the men gracing the covers and pages of celebrity magazines. The only connection between the Sheldon Brit had spent her four years of high school leering down her nose at, and the Sheldon now kneeling at her feet, clutching her hands in his, gazing at her in a way she could not remember even her own husband ever having gazed at her, was Sheldon's sweet and caring nature. That, and the faint acne scars that were only visible in extremely close proximity. Brit had to admit she liked them, too.

His voice, so kind and patient, broke discreetly into her thoughts: "For you _and_ your daughter to come home with me."

The question caught Brit off guard, thus rendering her temporarily speechless. "You would really do that?"

"I told you before: I'm not going anywhere without you."

"That doesn't leave me much choice."

"I should say not."

"All right then, Sheldon. I shall accept your proposal. Under one condition."

"What sort of condition?"

"The condition that you be rewarded most handsomely in exchange for your hospitality."

"No, please. That really isn't—"

"I insist."

"We'll sort out those details later on." He gave her hands another encouraging squeeze. "Right now, all I'm asking is for you to trust me."

* * *

 ** _Starstrucks = Starbucks, a.k.a. My Favorite Coffee Place On the Planet, and one I can see the Crust cousins frequenting regularly. XD_**


	4. Her Secret Shame

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teen_ _age Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** Hey, guys! I hope everyone's been well. Once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your continued interest and support in this story. While this chapter marks the beginning of a more dramatic sequence of events for Brit and company, I did throw in a few scenes I hope you will find humorous. I'm not the best at writing comedy, but those scenes managed to give me a chuckle anyway. (The scene where Maddie gets sick led me to do a little Google research.) I even got the opportunity to work in some references from the show, which was very fun to do.

On another note, I've been reading a lot of British novels lately, as well as researching British slang, so I tossed in a few words here and there, too, that I feel are worthy of the queen bee herself. Hopefully I succeeded.

Happy reading, and sorry for the crazy length of this chapter. I got carried away...again. LOL.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4:**

 **HER SECRET SHAME**

Maddie was sound asleep, her head pressed against the window, when Brit pulled into the parking garage of the luxury apartment building. Switching off the ignition, the destitute diva laid a careful hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Wake up, sweet-pea. We're here."

The little girl blinked her sleepy, cerulean eyes up at her mother. "Where's here?"

"Mr. Lee's apartment."

Back at the restaurant, Maddie's mother had explained that the man she called Sheldon had invited them to stay the night at his place. Intrigued, Maddie proceeded to ask, "You mean like a sleepover?" Both adults went on to exchange looks, the sort of looks suggesting they shared a secret. Smiling at her daughter's childlike philosophy, Brit replied honestly, "That's right, darling."

Excited for the prospect of spending the night in a place she'd never been before, Maddie celebrated by skipping the entire way across the parking lot to her mother's car.

The seemingly boundless energy that had flowed through Madison Prima like cash through an ATM machine less than an hour ago had since exhausted itself. Waking only long enough to inquire where they were, Maddie drifted off once more, caught somewhere between the boundaries of sitting up and laying down, cheek resting on her shoulder.

Brit wished she could do the same. Wished she was home, curled up in her grand bed, the duvet pulled over her head. But it was not to be. Not for a long, long time. Maybe never. Not as long as she had this many things to worry about. She sighed. She couldn't think right now. Didn't want to think. Especially about numbers. They had never been her strong suite. Ironically, she was incredibly proficient when it came to spending money. Back when she'd had it. But those days were long gone. Now, her only skill was in taking what little clothing she hadn't pawned, and putting together stylish outfits for herself and her daughter. She wondered how that sort of thing would look on a résumé. She had barely begun to consider this, when she was aware that her head was spinning. Spinning like the earth thrown completely out of orbit, reminding her that this was hardly the time to be making any elaborate decisions.

Laying her head against the window opposite her daughter, Brittany closed her eyes. It was there, in the safety of her posh automobile, that her anxiety over what an awful thing it is to be considered a homeless person began to fade.

Just as she felt herself starting to slide towards the sweet escape of sleep, she was woken by a vociferous vibration coming from outside her window. Startled and groggy, she turned to see Sheldon crouched on the other side of the glass, his hand curled into a loose fist. She waved, signaling for him to move so that she might open the door. Scrambling to his feet, he slid to the left, leaving a generous gap between her car and the one beside it. Pushing open the door, Brit climbed out of her car. She was about to reach back inside for Maddie, when Sheldon stopped her hand with his.

"How 'bout letting me carry her? You look exhausted."

After the way he'd insisted on paying for her dinner, Brit saw no point in arguing with Sheldon. He would always win. "Yes, thank you," she replied appreciatively. "Wait there while I collect our things from the trunk."

While Brit went about retrieving her very large, very heavy, and very, _very expensive_ pieces of designer luggage, Sheldon happily retrieved Maddie from the front passenger's seat. The little girl was all but dead to the world, producing only the slightest of stirs as he scooped her into his arms. She murmured something he could not understand, before nuzzling deeper into his sinewy chest. She was a little wisp of a thing, the spitting image of her mother as a girl. Seeing Brit now, and how she had changed, Sheldon felt suddenly very protective of her and the child. A long time had passed since he'd felt needed, or had the urge to don his Silver Shell armor. Years, in fact. It would be nice to feel that way again…

He smiled, watching Brit struggle with her two suitcases. Both of which were a good three or four times the size of _her._ Clearly, she had packed too much. No surprise there, he mused. He wanted to laugh. Did she have any idea how adorable she was? "On second thought," he said, "why don't you take Maddie, and _I'll_ give you a hand with those bags?"

"But I'm quite capable of—"

"Is it me, or did we not have a similar discussion not two hours earlier?"

"It's you," Brit lied, in her battle to maintain her posture, as well as her dignity. But the weight of the bags proved too much, and she toppled backwards. She let out a helpless little cry, her suede mulberry ankle boots kicking the air in protest. Landing flat on her back against the cushiony shields of her luggage, she was spared what could have proven a very painful and possibly serious injury.

Sheldon was looking at her in what appeared to be a mixture of concern and amusement. From the safety of his arms, Maddie remained dormant to her mother's brush with doom. More worried for the condition of her luggage than the danger she'd put herself in, Brit began to hoist herself up. She had just managed to get herself into a sitting position, when Sheldon offered her his hand.

"If you won't let me carry your bags," he said, "then at least do me the honor of helping you up."

Brit complied, and a moment later she was standing beside him. Despite their compromise, he continued to insist on taking charge of the luggage. She reluctantly agreed, if only because she'd passed the point of physical exhaustion. "Just don't go dragging them across the concrete,"she warned, as luggage and little girl were exchanged. "They're authentic leather and very, _very expensive."_

"Don't worry. I'll be as careful as I would if they were M.I.B."

Brit stared at Sheldon, as though he was speaking a totally different language. "M.I.B.?"

"Mint in box."

"Oh." Had he just compared her designer luggage to a container of unopened Tic-Tacs? Far too knackered to entertain such an absurd concept, the British beauty chose instead to change the subject. "So, which apartment is yours?"

"You'll see." Smiling, Sheldon gathered up the luggage with surprising ease and headed for the stairway, the Primas trailing closely behind.

* * *

Brit spied through partially closed lids Sheldon as he inserted the key into the lock of apartment number eight-one-zero-three. There was an audible _"click!"_ and the door unlocked. He pushed it open, and instantly the room flooded with light, revealing a beautifully furnished sitting room.

"Welcome," he declared, "to my humble abode."

Brit's initial thought would normally be to ask how someone who'd spent their teen years tinkering away in their parents' garage could afford such a lavish lifestyle. Sheldon must be a lawyer, or a banker, to have acquired all of the nice things she herself had taken for granted. She longed to kick off her boots, and sink her toes into the sumptuous pashmina carpet. And was the lamp of colorful stained glass perched on an end-table a real Tiffany? Being a long-time admirer of art nouveau decor, Brit considered herself an expert in identifying creations by her favorite designers. For Tiff's sixteenth birthday, Brit had presented her cousin with a bona fide Tiffany lamp. Partly as a joke, and partly because it was just the sort of thing suited for the homes of aristocratic ladies. Ladies whose fashion and lifestyle Brit herself strongly admired.

Seeing Sheldon's lamp made her ponder the question of what had become of the one she'd given Tiff. By now, it was undoubtedly laying in shattered pieces beneath pounds and pounds of garbage somewhere. Brit was sure of it.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" said Sheldon, his gentle voice chasing away Brit's negative thoughts. "I came across it at an antique shop a few years back."

She managed a small smile. "It's lovely."

"I've always had something of a fondness for beauty and its depiction through creative expression." As he spoke, his attention lingered on Brit, surveying her in much the same way it had back at the restaurant. As though she would vanish, and he wanted to preserve her eternally—every perfect, curvaceous inch of her—to memory.

Unable to help herself, she stifled a yawn.

"Oh, wow, how stupid am I?" Sheldon exclaimed. "Here I am, babbling on and on, and you're practically falling asleep on your feet!"

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Please. Carry on with what you were saying."

"There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. Right now, it's late and you're obviously very tired."

Sheldon escorted his guests down a long corridor, past various doors and rooms. At last they arrived at what he described as the 'guest quarters'. "You and Maddie are welcome to use whatever rooms you'd like," he said.

"We aren't choosy," Brit replied. Sheldon appeared to mull these words over in his head, as if he did not quite believe her capable of such open-mindedness. "Besides, Maddie prefers to sleep beside me whenever we travel. Therefore, we will only require a single suite."

"I see." Sheldon smiled. "Well, if there's anything else you need—anything at all—panic alarms have been installed in each and every room."

"I'll keep that in mind." It made Brit feel secure knowing Sheldon would be close by if anything were to happen. "Thank you again for everything you've done. You're a _smashing_ host."

"You don't need to thank me. All I want is for you and Maddie to feel as comfortable here, as you would in your own home."

"I assure you we do."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

"Well…goodnight."

"Goodnight, Brit," Sheldon said. "Sweet dreams."

"And to you as well."

Sheldon slipped away, a slightly more muscular shadow of his former gangly self moving leisurely across the white walls of his impressive penthouse. Watching him go, Brit felt a familiar flutter in her belly. It was the sort of feeling that no one but her husband had ever been able to evoke. She blushed. What did it mean? Was it lust, or something more? An attraction that had nothing to do with the amount of money Sheldon had, or the beautiful house in which he dwelled? Having grown up a perfectly rich snob, Brit had been ignorantly unaware that those with money were capable of things like kindness and generosity. The students back at her English private school had certainly treated her no better than she'd Jenny Wakeman. Perhaps if you worked for what you had, instead of being born into it, or having it handed to you, then you had a better chance of developing a life guided by respectability and happiness.

* * *

Sheldon Oswald Lee finished buttoning the top button—that is, the last in a line of five buttons—on his blue-striped pajama top. The one with his initials sewn in fancy script into the right breast pocket. A gift from Jenny on his last birthday. Even though nine years had passed since their high school graduation, and while Jenny would always maintain the personality of a teenager (nevertheless, a very _mature_ teenager), the long-time friends remained close. They did not see each other nearly as much as they would have liked; Sheldon's management of the country's largest computer enterprise, and Jenny's full-time supper-heroing, had seen to that. Despite their hectic schedules, they still managed to stay caught up on the latest events in each other's lives. It may not have been the most idyllic way to maintain a friendship, but it was better than nothing.

Even if Sheldon _did_ feel lonely a trifle at times.

He'd graduated high school at just sixteen, and college shortly before turning twenty-one. He was twenty-five now, already with an impressive legacy of academic successes behind him. He was amongst the youngest persons in the world to reach billionaire status before the age of twenty, and had had notable articles written about him in both _Not So Popular Mechanics_ and _Fashionista Magazine_ magazines. Fashionista was planning on declaring him 'Sexiest Man Alive' and 'Most Eligible Bachelor' in this year's summer issue. Tiffany Crust, who was conducting both interviews, had e-mailed him a substantial list of fifteen questions. He'd intended to look each one over carefully, and hopefully answer a few this evening. But with all that had happened, and with all that would likely continue to happen, he could not say for sure when he'd get to it. He had no intention of letting Tiff or her magazine down, and determined to fulfill his obligations. It suddenly occurred to him that he did not need to be at the office until noon the next day. It was ten p.m. now. He could work for an hour or so, and still be able to rise at his usual hour of seven a.m.

He retrieved his very ancient—though still very functional—laptop computer from one of the storage drawers beneath his four-poster bed. Crawling into bed, he switched on the machine. Once it had finished loading, he opened his e-mail, and scrolled down until he came to Tiff's message. He clicked on it, generating a square of text to fill the screen. Try as he might, he could not get himself to focus on the task in front of him. Not as long as the beautiful woman, whose very presence consumed his every thought and action, was near.

* * *

Brit exercised great caution, as she removed the black silk gloves from her hands. In doing so, she revealed the secret shame that had plagued her since her days as a shy and insecure girl back in England.

She had begun dealing with chronic hand eczema shortly after starting the sixth grade. It was impossible to say what, exactly, had triggered it. As far as anyone could tell, she was the only person in her family to ever suffer the condition. At nearly twelve years old, Brit had for years been the subject of bullying. But it was only recently that she'd gotten her first period. Henceforth, her doctor and parents all agreed that the culprit had to be either puberty or stress. Perhaps both. While her eczema was easy enough to conceal, her other problem proved a much more complicated matter altogether. Especially when it had established itself right in the middle of her face.

As a child, Brit's overbite had proven an instrument of tremendous pain for her. She could not go anywhere in school without being called 'Bucky the Buck-Toothed Beaver', 'Bugs Bunny' or 'Choppers'. She was asked daily by her schoolmates if she'd fancy a piece of wood or a carrot. It may not have seemed like a big deal to the grownups, but from the way Brit recalled those developmental years, the kids were nothing short of savage. Then the truth about her skin condition came out. It was hard to imagine how her life could get any worse. But it had. Oh, bloody hell, had it ever. When she walked into a classroom, the other kids would begin to whisper and giggle about something other than her teeth. If she sat down next to someone, whomever it was would beg the teacher to assign them another seat, or move to one themselves. The way she'd been treated was almost as hurtful as it was humiliating. There had been many times where she had simply skipped school. All because the wrath of her parents proved so much more bearable than being made to feel like some sort of horrible, contagious disease.

Eczema was not a disease, but try convincing a bunch of twelve and thirteen-year-olds of that. It was _nothing_ if not impossible. Kids that age believed whatever they wanted. That everything they thought of and talked about was nothing short of stone cold fact. If someone told them otherwise, they simply opted not to listen.

In high school, there had very few occasions where Brit was able to go a full day without her gloves. (Being transferred to a new school in a new town had had a significant impact on her stress levels.) Aside from her family, no one in Tremorton had any idea that she'd ever suffered what was actually a very common affliction. Even Don, her husband of less than three years, and who had considered her gloves something of a second skin, had had no clue his wife was hiding anything, until after they were married. She had expected her secret to come out right around the time they'd started dating—and that _Tiff_ would be the one to blow her cousin's cover. Only she hadn't, and neither had anyone else. When Tiff had sworn to her cousin that the name 'Brittany Crust' would never again touch her lips, the pint-size princess wasn't kidding.

In a sad, bittersweet sort of way, Brit felt beholden to her cousin. As hurt and angry as Tiff had been (and, for all anyone knew, still was), she had still honored her promise to Brit. Tiff had even taken to sporting her own pair of fashionable gloves, to help her cousin feel less like an outcast, and more like someone with a 'fly sense of style'.

 _"Your secret's safe wit' me, cuz."_

Brit proceeded to reach for the bottle of prescription ointment beside her. It was sticky and smelly and permanently stained anything it came in contact with—including wood—but was the only remedy strong enough to soothe her chafed and irritable hands. It was also the last bottle before her prescription ran out indefinitely. She sighed. This was the sort of thing poor people dealt with regularly. Those who were sick and could not afford to pay the price for their medications. Rather than go without, they cut their pills in half, hoping it would hold them over, until they could scrounge enough money together for more.

Poor Maddie had had the misfortune of inheriting her mother's condition. It was confined to her feet, but responded well to the same ointment her mother used on her hands. Maddie's 'itchies' were triggered mostly by the harsh summer temperatures, when shoes and socks were swapped out for sandals, and swimming became an almost mandatory event. She refused to wear sandals or go barefoot, except at home, and only indoors. If company came to call, or she was spending the night away from home (such as tonight), she would scramble to put on her socks, so that nobody would ask her about her 'lizard feet'. The little girl's insecurities were truly heartbreaking to behold, and often forced Brit to turn away, so that Maddie would not see her tears, and demand in the sweetly naïve voice of a child, "What's wrong, Mommy?"

Brit was about to expel a frugal portion of the foul-smelling stuff into her palm, when it occurred to her that several hours had passed, since she'd last checked her phone. Not that she was expecting any important texts or calls. With the exception of her her in-laws, the only time Brit's phone ever rang nowadays was when she was the target of bankers and bill collectors. Even her cell phone service—which was the cheapest and most unreliable available—was threatening to cut her off at the end of the month.

Bollocks.

She picked up her phone. There were two missed calls. One from early this afternoon, and the other from later in the evening, at seven-thirty-four p.m. She'd ignored the first call, after seeing it was from one of four or so dozen credit card companies. She'd ordered Maddie—who was as technologically savvy as any other modern day youngster—to silence the phone, so that "Mummy can focus on the road." Brit had not bothered to turn the volume back on, or even set her phone to vibrate, which explained why she'd been unaware of the second call. The caller was listed simply as 'Unknown', and the number they'd rung from was a mystery to her. It had a city area code, but who did she know who lived in the city except Sheldon? Besides, what logical reason could he possibly have to ring her, when he'd spent all evening in the company of her and her daughter?

'Unknown' was probably just another meddling sod, looking to demand money she didn't have. Not anyone worth bothering about. What would be the point of ringing back, anyway? To stress herself out even more? Just the thought made her hands start to itch. As always, the tingling started at the tops, slowly working its way to the backs, to the soft area at the bottoms of her fingers, moving stealthily towards her palms, until her only reasonable option was to drag her hands across a sheet of sandpaper.

Tossing her phone aside, Brit picked up her bottle of prescription ointment, and squeezed an ample amount onto her palm.

* * *

"Mommy? Mommy? I think I need a drink of water."

The familiar voice pulled Brit up from the waters of a restless sleep. A tiny figure was hovering over her, its identity obscured by darkness. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, and she was able to determine the presence in front of her. "Maddie?" she asked groggily. "What are you doing out of bed, love? Did you have a nightmare?"

"No. I need a drink of water," Maddie repeated. There was only one reason why she would wake her mother in the middle of the night, asking for water. Something Brit feared she had neither the strength nor the patience to deal with.

"Don't you feel well?"

A slow shake of her daughter's head confirmed her worries. "I think I'm gonna—"

Whatever doubts Brit had harbored regarding her maternal abilities vanished with the sound of Maddie's retching heaves. It was a sound that regularly followed Maddie's request for water, a sound that Brit, as a mother, was well acquainted with. It was over quickly, and soon enough the former queen bee was gathering her daughter into her arms, asking Maddie if she was okay, if she needed to use the bathroom. And all the while Brit was cursing herself. How could she have let Maddie, who weighed little more than a pineapple, devour such a massive meal so close to bedtime?

Some of what had missed the carpet (Brit did not like to consider how she was going to explain that mess to Sheldon) had ended up in Maddie's hair instead. Dark, shining, beautiful hair that had been passed along to her from her mother's side of the family. Hair Brit was fond of tying brightly colored ribbons in, and styling with curling wands and flat-irons. Hair that was now in dreadful need of a thorough washing.

"How do you feel?" she asked. "Shall I help you to bed? Or do you think you might be sick again?"

Maddie groaned, from where she'd managed to crawl and collapse onto the throw rug beside the bed. The rug was a good foot or so from the mess, which she'd managed to keep contained to the wooden floor. "Wanna lie here," she said.

"Yes, dear, of course. But not on the floor."

"Don't wanna move."

"But you won't be comfortable."

"Don't care."

Brit signed in defeat. This would never do. She was not going to get a wink of sleep that night. Not when her six-year-old daughter had opted to spend the night on a hard, cold floor.

* * *

In the brightness of his bedroom, Sheldon was sitting up in bed, head thrown back on the pillows, snoring loudly, a long trail of saliva dangling from his bottom lip. The laptop remained open on his lap, an image of the old flying toaster screensaver, which he'd redesigned specifically to run on his (slightly more) modernized computer, was playing ad nauseam on the screen. He was having a horrible dream about being back in high school, after showing up for class in nothing but the kitty face underwear he'd last worn when he was fifteen. He had just reached the part where everyone—including old Principal Renzetti—were laughing and pointing at him. Sheldon tried in vain to cover himself, using an issue of _Fashionista Magazine._ On the cover was a picture of him as he'd looked as a teenager, with the caption 'World's Sexiest Nerd' printed at the top. He was in the process of figuring out what he could do, what he could possibly invent that would get him out of his present situation—a situation he had no idea how he'd gotten into to begin with—when the bell signaling the end of school rang.

It was still ringing when he jerked awake. In doing so, a sharp pain shot up the back of his neck. This generated a violent knee spasm, and the laptop fell to the floor with a shattering crash. Unlike the rest of the penthouse, the bedroom floors had been constructed of solid wood "Because wood flooring is better suited for those of us with allergies," Sheldon would say, if someone inquired about the absence of carpet in the bedrooms.

Forcing himself to peer over the edge of the bed, Sheldon surveyed the damage. The laptop had landed in a way similar to a book, when a person wants to save their place but has no way to mark it. A good sign, or a reason to be concerned? Throwing his long legs over the edge of the bed, he was in the process of leaning over and finding out, when he realized that the ringing he'd first heard in his dream was still going.

He smacked his palm against his forehead. "Sheldon, you mind-boggling moron! That isn't the end-of-school bell! It's the damn panic alarm!"

Feeling like the very thing dogs sniff when they're getting to know each other, he lunged from the bed. He succeeded not only in tripping over the fallen laptop, and propelling it back into its proper upright position, but in slamming the lid down painfully on all five toes of his right foot.

"Owe!" he cried, shaking his foot free from the jaws of his childhood computer. The pain followed him across the room, out the door, into the hallway, and all the way down. "Owe-owe-owe-owe-owie-owie-owie- _owwwwe…!"_

* * *

Brit was sitting on the bed, repeatedly pressing the panic alarm, which had been conveniently placed on the nightstand. The ghastly noise reminded her of a film she had watched as a child. An old black and white horror movie that centered around two sisters. One sister, a retired actress, had been crippled in a terrible car accident, and forced to muddle her days away in an upstairs bedroom. Her only company were her pet parakeet and devoted housekeeper. If she was alone and required assistance, she had only to press the hand buzzer on her nightstand. But it was the other sister whom Brit remembered most vividly. Presumably because it was the sister with the two working legs who'd terrified Brit so much. Jealous of her crippled sister, the former child actress lived under the delusion that she, too, was a talented performer, and gone about town asking young strangers if they remembered her.

 _May a higher power strike me dead if I_ ever _become like that,_ Brit thought.

She rose then, intending to go back and sit with her daughter. Maddie was still refusing to budge from her spot on the floor, complaining about the sound of the alarm, when the door burst open, and Sheldon appeared.

His hand on the knob, he gasped out, "I came as fast as I could…what's going on?"

Brit was standing by the bed, her slim fingers laced together in her nervousness. She had yet to prepare Sheldon for the surprise awaiting him. "Maddie took ill unexpectedly. I'm afraid that—"

A shadow of genuine concern fell across the billionaire's face. "Maddie's sick?"

"Yes. However, I should warn you that—"

"Where is she?"

"On the other side of the bed. Sheldon, I really must tell you—"

But Sheldon was already circling—more like hobbling, Brit noted—to the opposite side of the bed. He had just spotted Maddie, when he felt his left foot—which was both bare and uninjured—make contact with a most unsettling substance. Brit raised a hand to her mouth, as Sheldon looked down at his foot in what could only be perceived as horror.

* * *

"Is it ruined?" Brit asked worriedly, as she finished tucking the comforter securely around Maddie.

Sheldon smiled reassuringly from his crouched position on the floor. "Are you referring to the floor or my foot?"

Brit rolled her eyes goodnaturedly. Not only was she relieved to see he was not in the least bit irritated by what had happened, but that he could joke about it so easily. Beside him were the ingredients he and Brit had collected, to create a homemade stain lifting solution: a box of baking soda, a bottle of distilled vinegar, a large mixing bowl containing three quarters of water, a scrubbing sponge, and a brand new roll of paper towels. The paper towels were Sheldon's preferred brand. The kind that let you select whatever size you wanted. But that wasn't the best part. The best part was that they were twice as absorbent as regular paper towels!

Snatching up the roll, Sheldon tore off three towels in a single rip. "Both the floor _and_ my foot are perfectly salvageable," he said. "This solution you mixed up seems to have worked."

"It's a little trick I learned after having Maddie," Brit replied. "As a parent, there are certain things you must learn to deal with early on. Getting sick out of every type of flooring is one of them."

"I'd say it's _number_ one."

She smiled. "Quite."

"Mmm…Mommy?"

Brit regarded her daughter with motherly concern. The color had drained from Maddie's face, leaving her looking pale and sickly. Her lively blue eyes had taken on the grayish tint of a sky just before a storm. But her lack of fever had led her mother and Sheldon to assume she'd simply gotten sick on too much greasy diner food.

"What is it, darling?" Brit said.

"Where's Buzzy?"

"What's a Buzzy?" Sheldon asked.

"It's a stuffed animal," Brit explained. "A bee. She's had it since she was born. Pteresa gave it to her. Maddie sleeps with it every night. If she doesn't have it…"

"Do you know where it is?"

"The car!" Maddie exclaimed. "I left him in the car!"

Brit groaned. No matter how much Maddie begged, no matter how much she cried or whined, there was no way—absolutely _no way!_ —that Brit was taking the elevator down to the lobby, so that she could walk through the rotating glass doors, and enter the parking garage in the dark, dead of night, to retrieve some silly stuffed animal. A stuffed animal given to her daughter by someone Brit once considered a friend, but whose life had eventually drifted in a different direction from hers, ceasing all contact.

"I promise to go down first thing in the morning," Brit said, "and get him for you."

"But I…" Maddie's lower lip quivered. "I can't go to sleep without him."

"Darling, it's only for one night."

"No!" Maddie protested by pounding her fists into the mattress at her sides. "That's _too_ long! I can't _sleep_ unless I have Buzzy!"

"But you were sleeping perfectly soundly only a moment ago."

Maddie did not answer. Folding her arms over her chest, she flopped back against the pillow, glaring long and hard at the armoire set against the wall on the other side of the room.

"I've got an idea," Sheldon said. "Wait here, ladies. I'll be back in a flash."

He was back in less than a minute. A mysterious smile curved its way up one corner of his mouth, while his hand worked to conceal something behind his back. Sinking down onto the edge of the bed, he slowly drew out his hand, and presented the sulking child with a token from his youth.

"Is that…" Maddie squinted her glassless eyes, not sure if what she was seeing was really real. "Is that a…a _Action Jenny doll?"_

"It most certainly is," declared Sheldon, with all the pride of a first-time parent. "A first edition, as a matter of fact. What do you think?"

"Well…" Maddie studied the doll for several seconds before continuing. "Whoever painted her used the wrong color blue. The _real_ Jenny's blue is a _lot_ brighter than this. And yours is kinda dirty-lookin'."

"Maddie!" Brit hissed. "Be nice."

"It's all right," Sheldon said. "She's just being honest."

"Sorry, Mr. Lee," Maddie said. "I don't care that your Jenny's a different color than the real one. Or that it's been a while since she's had a bath. Guess she's just been too busy chasin' after aliens an' fightin' crime, huh?"

"What?" Sheldon had become distracted by Brit—or rather, the intriguing _way_ Brit had of leaning against the top edge of the bed, and unknowingly revealing the outline of her shapely hip through her silk robe. Her choice of both clothing and posture had made it next to impossible for her host to concentrate on anything else.

As though waking from a trance, Sheldon regarded the child smiling patiently up at him with fatherly affection. "Oh. Oh, yes," he said, dragging his hands over his face in embarrassment. "And please. No more 'Mr. Lee'. It makes me feel like I'm still at work. From now on, call me 'Sheldon'."

"The name that Mommy calls you?" Maddie was astounded. She didn't know too many adults who allowed—and certainly none who insisted—that children address them by their first name. What was it about her that made this man, this Sheldon Lee, grant her such a privilege?

"Is that all right?" he prompted, following a brief silence.

Maddie nodded her head yes.

"Great. Now that that's settled, hold out your hands, please."

Maddie obliged, and without further adieu, Sheldon placed the Action Jenny doll into her outstretched hands. His heart swelled as he watched her cuddle the doll close to her cheek.

"She may not be much to look at now," he said, "or worth the price she would be, if I'd taken better care of her. But a little wear and tear doesn't make her any less special."

"What's special about her?" Maddie asked.

"Well, I got her when I was fifteen. The same year I met Jenny. The _real_ Jenny."

"The same Jenny from my video games?"

"That's right."

"Wow! You mean you _knew_ her?"

"I still know her."

"Cool! What's she like?"

"As thoughtful and compassionate as she is strong and fearless. You'd like her. Maybe one day I'll introduce you."

"You really mean it?" Maddie's eyes sparkled with anticipation, and the color returned to her cheeks. "That would be so awesome!"

"Of course I mean it. No great lover of robots can feel fulfilled, until they've met the greatest robot of them all."

Although she said nothing, Brit's discomfort showed plainly on her pretty face. Depending on how open she'd been with her daughter, and whatever stories Brit's old colleagues had shared with Maddie, it was impossible to tell for sure how much the child knew about her mother's relationship—or lack thereof—to Jenny Wakeman. More than likely, the adults in Maddie's life had simply opted to shield the truth from her. And why not, when the truth would force her mother to admit doings she was not exactly proud of?

Sheldon harbored no resentment for the years in which his only tie to popularity was as a target for bullies. Yet he found Brit's reasons for keeping her daughter in the dark about certain things perfectly understandable. Maddie, whose adoration and admiration for her mother was as unblemished as Sheldon's complexion, was the jewel of Brit's eye. Watching the tender and forgiving way Maddie tucked her head underneath her mother's chin, and how both of Brit's arms slipped so protectively and lovingly over her daughter's chest, the Action Jenny doll positioned in Maddie's arms so that it seemed to smile up at its former owner, as if saying, "We had our time, it was great, but now the time has come to let go, and let me move on", it hit Sheldon then just how much Brit still clung to Don.

"Maddie? Would you like to hear the story of how Jenny rescued me from a band of revenge-driven space pirates?"

* * *

It was a quarter past three in the morning, when Brit and Sheldon said goodnight in the doorway of the guest bedroom.

"You have a way with kids," she said.

"You think so?" he asked.

Leaning heavily against the doorframe, Brit smiled softly. "Many people find Maddie endearing, but difficult to understand. You're the first person who hasn't asked me to translate anything she's said."

Sheldon's reciprocated smile conveyed his demureness. "It wasn't hard. If adults only took the time to listen—I mean _really listen_ —to kids, and what they're saying, then the world would be a much happier and way more intelligent place."

"Even so, my daughter adores you. Never have I seen her take to a stranger quite so fast."

"Our mutual love of robots certainly doesn't hurt."

 _You mean a mutual love of Jenny._ "So it would seem." Brit yawned, as though listening to how Sheldon had spent seventy-five years stranded in outer space had bored her to death.

It was then, as she raised a hand to her mouth, that Sheldon glimpsed a most astonishing and troubling sight: Brit's hands. Those long, tapered fingers he had only just seen laced together in a protective gesture at the base of her daughter's chest, were covered in a thick layer of flaky, reddish raw skin. Skin that was undoubtedly painful to the touch.

He sucked in a sharp breath. She lifted her head, met his eyes. The look of horror that materialized on his formerly composed face was more than she could bear. All she could think to do was to throw her hands over her eyes, and hide behind the source of her deepest, most secret shame.

After a moment's pause, she heard him ask, "Brit? You okay?"

She did not answer. Merely stood there, in the doorway of the bedroom, where her daughter was sleeping peacefully. In all her six years of life, Maddie had never once cringed in revulsion to her mother's touch. To Maddie, her mother's hands were not something to be disgusted by, like lima beans or grape-flavored Popsicles. Such hands were the giver of band-aids to scraped knees; the wiper of tears after a bad dream; and the maker of the best double dutch triple chocolate chip muffins in the whole wide world. It was to those who were blinded by the error of their beliefs, that Brit was seen as something else entirely.

Oh. What was this? Something drawing her hands away from her face? Or rather, some _one_ was. Sheldon. Brit froze, clenching her hands into tight fists, her thin wrists like blocks of cement, as the billionaire tried in vain to pry her hands forward.

"Stop it."

His command was firm yet kind, and she gave in, her stubbornness crumbling like a brick wall as his worried face loomed before her.

"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely. She could feel tears in her eyes, a lump in her throat. "How can you bear to touch me? Are you not the least bit disgusted?"

"How can I be disgusted when I am literally _blinded_ by the beauty before me?" he said, as she sensed his hold on her wrists begin to relax.

She blinked back her tears. "You're making fun of me…"

"I assure you I'm not."

"You know, don't you?"

"You mean about your hands? Honey, I studied medical science in my youth, and completed a full course during my first year of college. Of course I can see you suffer from a form of hand eczema."

"Is that why you're being so sweet about it? Because my condition is related to science, and science is something that interests you?"

"I suppose that's part of it. Mostly it's because I can sympathize with the emotional toll such conditions take on the human psyche. As I'm sure you'll remember, I used to suffer from a pretty bad case of acne. It cleared up by the time I started college. But during those formative years, there were times where I felt really depressed. There were days where I'd tell my folks I was sick, just so I wouldn't have to go to school, and face the ridicule of the other kids."

"I had no idea."

She really hadn't. She'd never taken the time to notice just how much alike they truly were. Had she known, would she have made the effort to relate to him, and be his friend? Not bloody likely. She'd had enough trouble trying to keep her condition a secret from everyone at school. She couldn't afford to take on any added burdens.

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Tremorton, Brittany Crust, the queen bee of high school, had found one of her subjects, Sheldon Lee, guilty of being a nerd and a geek, and banished him to the Land of the Lower Classmen.

Now, ten years later, her wayward subject had returned, here to comfort his former queen, and help her see that she was not alone. That she was still beautiful, in spite of what surfaced when the day ended, and her gloves came off.

* * *

 ** _Some fun tidbits regarding this chapter:_**

 ** _-The number of Sheldon's apartment -_** ** _eight-one-zero-three - is an allusion to August 1, 2003, which was when "My Life as a Teenage Robot" first premiered on Nickelodeon (according to Wikipedia)._**

 ** _-The movie about the two sisters that Brit reminisces over is a real movie (kudos to anyone who knows the title)._**

 ** _-I didn't realize the significance of making Buzzy a bee, until AFTER writing it. I was watching a lot of "Adventure Time" while writing this chapter, and developed a fondness for the cute little bee shown alongside the equally adorable worm during the end credits. So I decided to model Maddie's special stuffed animal after the bee._**


	5. At Daybreak

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teenage Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the _My Life as a Teenage Robot_ television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** Hey, guys! I hope everyone is doing awesomely. :)

Okay. So here's a breakdown of what happened: by the time I finished writing Chapter 5, I realized that it ran longer than expected, and decided to improvise, which I did by cutting it into two chapters. By doing so, Chapter 5 turned out extra short, and I guess I didn't like that, because I ended up writing two additional scenes. Before I knew it, I had two full-length chapters on my hands. Thankfully, it just so happened to work in my favor. I plan to start editing and proofreading Chapter 6 in the next few weeks, so it shouldn't be too long before I post it.

As for what this Chapter 5 entails, let me just say that it's incredibly busy. And dramatic, to a point where I feel I should maybe feel embarrassed. ^ ^ ;; It features five different characters dealing with a variety of issues (including relationship problems and childhood anxiety, just to name a few), all while sitting around inside their own heads. Expect to see a few more familiar faces. :)

Before moving on, I would like to take a moment, and personally thank eveyone who left me comments last time:

 **Guest:** Oh, my goodness! Thank you so much! It's really nice to know that you're enjoying the fic so much, and that you like the way I've fleshed out Tiff's character. Even though Brit has always been my favorite of the Crust cousins, I enjoy writing Tiff the most, which I got the opportunity to do in this chapter. She just has so much going on in her life, as you mentioned in your review, not to mention am extremely outspoken personality, and that makes her loads of fun to write.

As for the destination of Starstrucks, they're part of a massive chain. The cast of MLAATR looked like they lived in a sort of suburbia, where there more houses than businesses (a place like Mezmer's seemed to be located in the local downtown area). It would probably take Brit and Maddie five to ten minutes to drive to Starstrucks, or thurry-five minutes if they walked (I'm going by my own personal experience with my local Starbucks). Since Sheldon and Tiff are both residents of a large city, I like to think a Starstrucks would appear around every other corner. XD

By the way, I reread the first chapter, and fixed those typos you mentioned. I am such a perfectionist when it comes to my writing, and proofread that chapter a ridiculous amount of times, so I was a bit annoyed with myself that I missed those. LOL. I thank you for pointing them out.

 **Zhilo:** Thank you very much, and I'm so glad that you're enjoying the story. I can definitely promise that its intensity will only increase from here, so it's good to know that that's something you're interested in reading about. Whenever I write fan fiction, I have the habit of giving villainous or unpleasant characters a reason to act the way they do. I suppose because it makes them seem more like real people - to me, at least, and hopefully to others, too - and not just my favorite characters in a show I love so much.

 **Irondove:** Even though I replied to your comment through PM, I just want to say thank you again for your kind words, and how happy I am that you found me again!

 **corsario3921:** I completely agree. While Sheldon is very much attracted to Brit physically, I do want to show that that isn't the reason why he cares about her, or her daughter.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5:**

 **AT DAYBREAK**

Whoever coined the phrase 'Absence makes the heart grow fonder' had obviously never been married to a man like Sebastian.

With a heavy sigh, Pteresa Radcliffe tossed another of her husband's discarded socks into the laundry basket at her side. Hands on hips, she looked in disgust around the pigsty that was her living room. Clothing stained with motor oil and other unidentifiable blots had been strewn over and under furniture. Crushed up beer and soda cans lay scattered about the carpet, while other were stuffed in between couch cushions, as though a tornado had just blown through. She had lost count of just how many times she'd asked Sebastian to pick up after himself. Then again, what she considered gentle reminding he insisted was downright nagging.

The former cheerleader and third most popular girl at Tremorton High School came from a family where being a single parent was comparable to breaking a mirror. For Delia McCurdy, marriage had never been an option. It was a sole solution. Pteresa's parents were still just kids themselves when she'd come along. Two sixteen year-olds unprepared for the emotional and financial sacrifices necessary to raise a baby. She didn't remember her father, who'd left before her first birthday. She'd been raised primarily by her mother and maternal grandparents, two stepfathers, and a series of her mother's boyfriends whose names and faces she could no longer picture.

It made sense why Pteresa suffered a debilitating fear of rejection from the time she was a little girl. A little girl who, when old enough to look around her, had seen that she was part of only a small number of kids at school with only one parent. It had come as both confusing and devastating at the same time. When she got home, and asked her mother about her father, Delia explained that he was not the sort of man fit to raise a child. "You should consider yourself lucky," she told her daughter. But Pteresa hadn't felt lucky. She'd felt left out, the way she did when the girls at school refused to let her jump rope with them.

Pteresa was twenty-one, when she got the news that would forever change her life, and the life of her boyfriend. Determined not to end up like her mother, she wasted no time. The day after her suspicions were confirmed, she told Sebastian what she thought they ought to do. With an uncertain smile, he explained that he loved her, and that he was happy to provide for her and the baby, but that marriage was not the sort of commitment he was ready or willing to make. Then his parents intervened, and his future as a lawfully wedded man with a baby was permanently sealed.

The only reason the Radcliffes had stuck it out these last five years was for the sake of their son. Watching the two Sebastians together, Pteresa could hardly deny that her husband was indeed a wonderful father. She sometimes found herself troubled by the idea that Sebastian's affection for their son stemmed from the little boy's physical resemblance to his father. Would Sebastian Jr. receive the same sort of fatherly love and attention he did now, had he favored more than just his mother's red locks and blue eyes?

All apprehensions aside, there was one thing Pteresa could say for sure: that despite his husbandly shortcomings, Sebastian always managed to prove himself a doting and competent father. He had enough self control so that he didn't argue with his wife in front of their child, and had never raised a hand to either of them. Instead, he took out his aggression on whatever inanimate objects happened to be within his sights or in his way. Like the antique china with the pink flowers and gold trim that had belonged to Pteresa's great-grandmother, or the twice-replaced family television set.

Pteresa snatched up a rumpled undershirt that had somehow found its way underneath the coffee table. Dropping it into the basket, she wondered if this would be the last time she'd find herself down on her hands and knees, retrieving something that her husband was clearly too lazy to retrieve himself.

When he called her the previous night, and told her where he was, she had only been partly shocked. The police had arrested him, and were holding him overnight for questioning. He'd rattled off the story to her of how Mac, the mechanic he'd worked for since the age of nineteen, had accused him of stealing five-hundred dollars in cash from the register. "I'm innocent, baby, honest," Sebastian groveled. "You know me. I'd never do a thing like that."

He only called her 'baby' when he had something to hide. Like that affair he'd had five months ago, with the busty eighteen-year-old who'd worked part-time with him down at Mac's. Sebastian insisted she was the one who'd come onto _him,_ and not the other way around. That it all started because she'd asked him to teach her everything he knew about performance carburetors. What a crock. Pteresa hadn't bought his lie, but let him think she had, in an attempt to maintain a peaceful household. Besides, what right did she have to be upset, anyway? It wasn't like she hadn't seen his cheating ways coming.

Sitting slumped over on the lid of the toilet in her itty bitty bathroom, Pteresa had begun to cry. She did so quietly, so as not to wake her husband and son, both of whom were asleep across the hall. Pulling off her cat's-eyes glasses, she proceeded to dab at her eyes with a wadded up piece of toilet paper. Wondering how in hell she could go from being the cute girl at the top of the cheerleading pyramid, to an overworked, overweight housewife in glasses and pink hair curlers. Okay, so she wasn't technically overweight. By supermodel standards, maybe, but by real woman standards, she was perfectly normal. There was nothing wrong with her. Tiff had said so. Probably only as a way to get her to stop crying (she cried too much, and was too overly emotional, according to Sebastian), the time Pteresa had all but fallen apart, over not being able to fit into her old cheerleading uniform. Much as she'd appreciated the pick-me-up, she had asked herself just how deeply Tiff's sincerity ran. How the stylish, confident, educated Tiffany Crust, with her perfect ass and killer abs, and three-nights-a-week step classes, could sit there, look Pteresa in the eye, and tell her honestly that she was perfect just the way she was. Tiff was being nice, that was all. She felt sorry for Pteresa, being trapped here, in a ramshackle trailer, at the back of some middle-of-nowhere woods. Keeping in touch was just an inconspicuous way for Tiff to ease her guilt. She was a successful career woman now, living in a high-rise apartment building in a big city. She did her duty by visiting Pteresa on weekends, after Sebastian had left to go play pool, and drink himself into a drunken stupor with his loser friends.

Like Pteresa's mother, Tiff had little tolerance for the father of Sebastian Jr. Each time Pteresa talked about or even mentioned her husband, and the latest thing he had done or said to upset her, Tiff would regress to shades of her old self, calling him a loser, insisting, "He ain't good enough ta hang wit' our crew".

Catching sight of her reflection in the mirror on the other side of the living room, Pteresa felt her heart sink. Suddenly, it was like a loudspeaker had been switched on inside her head. The tyrannical voice of her husband boomed out at her from all sides, telling her she was nothing but stupid and fat and unworthy of love. Slowly turning her five-foot-two-inch frame to one side, Pteresa stared sadly down at her drooping bust, and what seemed to be her ever expanding waistline. There was no question of why her marriage had gone down the toilet like a dead goldfish being flushed. So painfully obvious it was how Sebastian could pull away from her, and go in search of other—sexier—ways with which to satisfy himself.

In a rage, she slammed the laundry basket down as hard as she could onto the hopelessly stained carpet. The mountain of items inside—socks, shirts, even a used pair of underwear she'd found hanging from the knob of the hall closet—collapsed, spilling across her feet. She dropped to her knees beside the pile of dirty laundry, felt the onset of tears sting her eyes. She snatched her glasses from her face, swiping the front of one hand roughly across her eyes

Her thoughts drifted back to her childhood. To a forgotten time when she was just six years old, and her mother had forced her to wear contact lenses. All because Delia McCurdy disapproved of the 'fullness' glasses gave her daughter's heart-shaped face. Until she was in middle school, Pteresa had been an insomniac, all because she lived in constant dread of the events that transpired every morning. After rousing Pteresa at the grand old hour of five-fifteen, Delia would drag her, often kicking and screaming, into the bathroom. She would then set the sleepy-eyed, surly-tempered child down on the ledge of the sink. All the while muttering to herself of how much more difficult wet eyes made the process of applying contacts. To make matters worse, Delia insisted on buying only the brand of tissues soaked in lotion, so that every time she dried Pteresa's eyes, the little girl would scream at the top of her lungs, as though she was being tortured. "No, Mommy, no!" she wailed. "It stings!" The tissues had only made having contact lenses—or, as Pteresa thought of them, two tiny circles no bigger than a person's fingertip—jammed into her eyes that much more unbearable. By the time it was over, all Pteresa felt like doing was shutting up her sore, irritated eyes, and shoving her head underneath a pillow.

Having returned the remaining fallen items to the laundry basket, the unhappily married mother stood up, and set her sights on the large window behind the couch. There, standing with the palms of his small hands pressed to the glass, and looking more anxious than any five-year-old should, was Sebastian Jr.

* * *

If Tiffany Crust had had the slightest inkling as to how her morning would pan out, she would not have hesitated to tap the snooze button on her alarm app repeatedly. Better yet, she would have gone for broke, and silenced her phone altogether.

And she would have, had she not already told Pteresa they would spend the day together. If there was one thing Tiff could be counted on for, it was keeping promises. It was one of the reasons she held such an important position at one of the fashion world's most revered magazines.

Wearing a knee-length black sleep shirt featuring a skull and crossbones, and her favorite pair of pink slippers with demon horns, Tiff ventured idly down the stairs and into the kitchen. A hardcore coffee addict since the age of fourteen, she required no less than three cups every morning, and another two in the afternoon. One more in the evening, depending on the intensity of her schedule. Then there were the times when things down at _Fashionista_ got _really_ crazy. The worst were always the holidays. Like a ferret on a quest for shiny objects, Tiff spent an exorbitant amount of time picking and choosing what she hoped would become the latest fashion trends. It was not unusual for Chloe, or another member of Tiff's staff, to come into her office, and find her guzzling coffee straight from the pot.

Set up on the countertop, beside Tiff's cherished single-serve coffee maker (a birthday gift from her parents), was a rotating holder that displayed up to thirty coffee pods. The extras—of which there were more than she could count fifty times on both hands—took up more than half the cabinet space in her kitchen. The remaining cabinets were used to hoard her collection of coffee tumblers. Like the pods, she owned more tumblers than she had outfits back in high school. What little space was left she gave to her meager assortment of plates, bowls, and drinking glasses.

She selected her favorite flavor of coffee from the holder, and slid the pod easily into the maker. She pushed a button, initiating a loud sputter. Just as the kitchen began to fill with the aroma of Starstrucks Vanilla Bean, she was hit by a wave of unexpected nausea. She made a mad dash for the sink, throwing her head over the edge seconds before it all came up. What the hell? It couldn't have been anything she'd eaten. Maybe she was coming down with something. Flu season was in full swing, and her doctor had said the shot was apparently not as effective this year.

Whatever it was, she thought, as she switched on the faucet, letting the water run for a minute before switching it off again, was starting to pass. The smell of coffee was becoming less intrusive, too, making her caffeine cravings start to rise up from the ruins of last night's grilled salmon.

Figuring that the episode was nothing to be concerned with, Tiff went about her day as usual. Just another Saturday morning in the life of a single, working-class gal. Sitting at the small table in her spacious kitchen, she sipped her coffee (one cup, since she would be picking up Starstrucks to take to Pteresa's), and ate her breakfast. Today she dined on plain Greek yogurt, mixed with a tablespoon of granola, topped off with one cup of fresh raspberries. An expert multi-tasker, Tiff did it all effortlessly, while checking her e-mail on her laptop-tablet combo.

There was still no word yet from Sheldon, regarding the set of interview questions she had sent him. They had yet to decide if the interview was going to be done in person, or over the phone. While Tiff was hoping for a face-to-face meeting, she understood that Sheldon's schedule was every bit as hectic and demanding as hers. But she wasn't worried. No more now than she was when Gunner DuPont—her boss, as well as CEO of _Fashionista Magazine_ —had called her into his office four months ago. "Sheldon Lee did not become a billionaire," DuPont said, "because of some trust fund his parents set up for him when he born. He was a small-town boy and came from a family of blue-collar workers. Most people who read our magazine are in the same boat. They love the fashion and celebrities, but they also love being able to relate. I have already spoken to Lee, and he has agreed to meet with you. If you can get him to agree to this interview, then _Fashionista_ may very well go on to be the number one read magazine in the world."

Three days later, Tiff met with Sheldon at Mezmer's, to discuss the possibility of doing an interview. The amount of enthusiasm he expressed was more than she had expected. Moreover, he did not appear to harbor the slightest bit of resentment towards her, or hold any grudges against her, for things that had transpired so long ago. When they exchanged greetings, he even went as far as to kiss her hand. It was not the sort of greeting she saw coming, and certainly not one she encountered regularly, with those to whom she was professionally associated. The shock presented itself in the rosy glow that lit up her face like fireworks. He remembered her, he said, and Brit too. That had been the hard part, Tiff thought. Having to explain to her potential client, in as few details as possible, that she and her cousin had gone their separate ways. She didn't give a reason, nor did Sheldon request one. It was his unwillingness to pry into her personal life that had reassured her. He understood that their meeting was strictly business, and not some reunion or social call.

While the changes in Sheldon were completely physical (Tiff couldn't help but find him extremely attractive), his personality had remained unchanged. He was still the same sweet, sensitive guy who'd spent all of high school pining for Jenny Wakeman. Tiff wondered if that was still the case, or if he'd moved on. But she never got the chance to ask. Her thoughts had been on other things. Like what a reliable and dependable person he clearly was. At only twenty-five, he was surprisingly mature and settled in his life. He was definitely someone she felt she could trust to take the opportunity she was presenting to him seriously.

Tiff had dealt with the opposite types before—several times, in fact. They occurred both during her still very early days at Fashionista, and after her promotion from junior assistant to editor-in-chief. Back then, she'd made the mistake of taking on clients who'd ended up not only causing her—and _Fashionista_ —a ton of embarrassment, but costing everyone thousands of dollars in lost wages. During such incidents, Tiff had suffered triple what the magazine did. Gunner DuPont—whose opinions of those he chose whether or not to employ, were based on attitude and performance ability, rather than age and places of education—had reduced even the likes of bold, aggressive Tiffany Crust to tears.

While these experiences had no doubt been unpleasant, they had also taught her a valuable life skill: the skill of how to read people. It had taken her a few more tries—and a couple extra tongue lashings from DuPont—before she was able to tell the loafers from the real go-getters. But eventually she got the hang of it. All she'd had to do was to look at people as she would a pile of handbags. Some were designer, while others were counterfeit. Her job was to separate the real bags from the fake ones. Besides, she liked the idea of toting around a phony designer bag about as much as she liked working with someone who couldn't get it together.

She glanced at the time in the lower corner of her computer screen: eight-thirty-seven. She had told Pteresa she'd be by sometime around eleven. Depending on the traffic, it would take Tiff nearly an hour to drive from the city into Tremorton. If she was set on carrying out her usual shower-hair-makeup routine—which she most definitely was—she figured she'd better kick her booty into high gear.

Temporarily pushing thoughts of Sheldon and the interview to the back of her mind, the junior-editor-turned-editor-in-chief rose from the table, and hurried upstairs to get ready.

* * *

Sebastian Radcliffe stared glumly out at the courtyard through the bars in his cell at Tremorton Prison. He shared the space with five other men. One was currently struggling against the headlock that the biggest man next to Sebastian had trapped him in. Meanwhile, the three additional men had decided to engage in a heated argument over whose turn it was to use the phone. Sebastian found it fairly easy to tune them out. All he had to do was pretend he was back in his old high school English class, and the voices around him would simply fade away.

He wished he could say the same for his present state of circumstances. Convince the judge to go easy on him. Get him (or her) and Mac to understand that taking the money was the only way Sebastian could pay back the debt he'd racked up down at Jerry's Pool Hall. The men at Jerry's were bigger and meaner than the jokers clogging up the prison cells down here. They were serious gamblers intent on getting what was owed them. Even if it meant busting another man's nose, or snapping both his legs in two simultaneously.

Sebastian hadn't slept in a week. While a steady supply of adrenalin had allowed him to make it through the days, the nights proved much less forgiving. It was there, in the bed beside his sleeping wife, whose discreet snoring was not, for once, enough to lull him into dreamland, that the storm cloud hovering over him finally burst open. The feelings he had convinced himself weren't there rained down on him with a vengeance. Examining his life from every angle and corner, he thought about the mistakes he had made, and those he had hurt. How not fulfilling his childhood dream of playing pro football had literally transformed him. Made him go from being the sweet and somewhat simpleminded jock, to a downright mean and resentful jerk. He believed that yelling was far more effective than speaking in a calm, rational tone, and scoffed at anyone whose lives had turned out better than his. A part of him truly believed those people existed only to make him and those like him feel bad. He couldn't see how someone with money and a house, or even a really nice apartment, could also be a decent human being.

Come Monday, Jerry would be demanding to know where his money was. If Sebastian didn't have it…if he asked for more time…then _pow!_ The big, bearded, grumbling gambler would let him have it. But getting the tar beat out of him was the least of Sebastian's worries. Right now, what weighed heaviest on his mind was the idea he'd gotten last night, sitting in the back of a police car. He hadn't told Pteresa yet. She'd started crying when he called, and told her what had happened. That just made the whole thing seem wrong somehow. It would be better to wait until later, when she came to bail him out. He was sure she'd talked Tiff into coming along. He felt almost giddy at the thought of seeing his wife's best friend. His plan succeeding depended entirely on Tiffany Crust, and whether or not she agreed to his demand. If he asked her in front of Pteresa, there was a good chance Jerry wouldn't feed the former star quarterback to his snarling dog, whose bite was undoubtedly worse than its bark. The animal was so vicious, the gambler kept it chained to a table in the unoccupied back room at his pool hall.

Sebastian was less hopeful when it came to the matter of his son. As much as he loved and wanted to see him, he hoped Pteresa would decide to leave the boy with a babysitter. Jail was no place for a five-year-old. Not to mention that seeing all those big men, with their bad tattoos and toothy grins, would probably terrify Sebastian Jr. Make him wet his pants and give him nightmares for life.

Hoping to clear his mind, and arm himself mentally for the events ahead, Sebastian watched a tiny bird as it perched itself on the ledge of the concrete sill. Ever so carefully, he stuck one finger in between two of the bars. The bird cocked its head at him, as if to say, "Is that all you've got? No worm or even a lousy bread crumb?" The thought made him smile. The bird took two dainty hops forward. Pecked at his finger. He barely felt it, the creature was so gentle. It was a gentleness that evoked in him affections for his wife. Of the way she had been, before she'd gotten pregnant, and their families forced them to marry. Their relationship had deteriorated quickly, but not because of their son. If anything, Sebastian Jr. was the flashlight in the blackout of his parents' former lives. If it wasn't for their little boy, then Sebastian would not have stuck it out with Pteresa all these years. And he sure as hell would not be married to her still.

He had spent half the night rejecting the idea that it was not so much his unpaid debt that forced him take the money; but rather his crumbling marriage. If his wife discovered he was a thief on top of a cheating husband, then the odds she would want a separation or even a divorce were extremely high. He was sure she had blabbed the news of his arrest to Tiff the second they'd gotten off the phone last night. Tiff was probably at the trailer now, consoling Pteresa. Letting her cry on her shoulder. Nodding and agreeing to every lie and allegation that dishonest heifer accused him of.

He stopped himself, and thought about his words. He thought of her. Pteresa. His wife and mother of his child. Unhappy with herself and her looks, she took everything anybody said about her to heart. She'd been doing it since shortly after Sebastian Jr. came along. Sebastian remembered when Pteresa's doctor had suggested she begin seeing a therapist. Instead of supporting her, he'd laughed, saying that no wife of his was going to see a shrink and pop pills like some crazy person.

Now, sitting here in a prison cell, while the men around him fought each other like cats in an alleyway, Sebastian speculated on the things he had done—and failed to do—as a husband. What were those vows he and Pteresa had taken on their wedding day? To have and to hold, in good times and lame? Something like that. His memorizing skills were hardly the best, and his ability to string words together fell just one ounce shy of pathetic. He'd ripped his wedding vows straight from the lines of some chick flick Pteresa liked. She hadn't minded. She'd appreciated it. Said it was the sweetest thing anyone ever did for her. He'd been angry with her for getting pregnant, and blamed her for his missing out on a promising career in football. But gazing into those big doe eyes, he'd seen the truth, saw how much she loved him. Feeling the grudge he'd built around his heart begin to thaw like winter ice, he'd swept his new bride into his arms, and kissed her.

Sebastian would do just about anything, if it would mean being able to share in days like that with his wife again. To see her sadness vanquished by the light of a beautiful smile, or hear the echo of her laugh. It was still so contagious, despite its huskiness. That was his fault, too. Pteresa had started on the cigarettes only _after_ Sebastian had started agreeing with her on the comments about her weight. "If you're so unhappy," he'd snapped, "then do something about it. Quit buying snack cakes, and don't eat the same cereal as Sebastian Jr." He hadn't meant to sound so blunt or be insensitive. All he'd wanted was for her to stop squawking about the broad down at Mac's. It was true what Pteresa had said, though. Not the she's-prettier-than-me-isn't-she part. That was ridiculous. It was the messing around part that agitated him. But what other choice did he have, when she all but refused to let him touch her anymore? Not even to give her a hug. His life and his bed had never felt so empty, or so cold. He didn't understand her. Not at all. To him, she was beautiful. The softest, sweetest thing. She always had been. Sure, she'd gained some weight over the years, but so what? Didn't everyone? Well, everyone except those two Crust cousins. Tiff was obsessed when it came to exercise, and Brit had the sort of body now that no plastic surgeon in the world could ever come close to imitating. It was women like that who always got Pteresa started on one of her woe-is-me tirades. Sebastian hated when she got like that. Because once she got started, it was damn near impossible to get her to stop. She could go for hours if he let her. Cry and whine and carry on, until he poured her a glass of wine and ordered her to go lie down.

Sebastian looked down at his own body. At the gut that had appeared out of nowhere one day, replacing the six-pack he'd modeled so proudly all through high school. It was discouraging, yes, and annoying, most definitely. But it was hardly worth the amount of tears his wife shed every time she passed by a mirror.

His thoughts turned once more to his son, and how all this family drama and dysfunction was surely affecting him. Sebastian Jr. had never said anything to the effect of his parents' constant arguing. But that didn't mean he was blind to the events that were broadcasted before him every day like one of his cartoon shows. It would explain why he was so attached to his mother. It was _unnatural_ how the little boy was always so eager to help around the kitchen, or sleep between his parents at night. His father had even begun to grapple with the possibility that his son would grow up to be unmanly. Maybe even the sort of man who compulsively sought his mother's approval, for every woman who captured his interest.

Good grief. Sebastian had to get out of here. He just had to. He could almost hear the voice of Pteresa. Not the nagging, hen-pecking gripe he was used to. But rather the soothing, motherly tone she used on Sebastian Jr., every time he struggled with a word in his spelling book, or didn't want to sleep in his own bed: _"Be the man you were before, Sebastian. The man I fell in love with when we were both sixteen._ _Who talked about transitential radio shops and told me I was cute at a fancy Italian bistro._ _You can be that man again, Sebastian. I_ know _you can. I believe in you, Sebastian. Our_ son _believes in you."_

"Me, too, baby." Sebastian was surprised by just how honest the words sounded as he said them out loud. "Me, too. I'll bet my last poker chip on it."

* * *

"The town's surprisingly dead for a Saturday," Tuck murmured to himself, as he finished adjusting the rearview mirror on his cherry red convertible. "Even if it is still early. Everybody must've gone way for the weekend."

A broken view of his huge, brown eyes stared back at him. Tiff loved those eyes. Said they were sweeter and more mysterious than her favorite organic chocolate. Tuck could say the same of her. From the way she was never afraid to say exactly what she was thinking or feeling, to the fierce independence that streaked her like a bolt of lightning. There was not a woman alive who could possibly compare to Tiffany Crust, or the powerful emotions she roused in her young suitor.

Tuck finished fiddling with the mirror, and let his hands fall back to the steering wheel. The light switched from red to green, and traffic resumed its steady flow. Eyes on the road, he allowed his right hand to slip away from the wheel. His fingers swept over the cup holder beside him, brushing a few dollar bills…and something else. Being the responsible driver he was, he waited until after he'd reached the tollbooth, before taking his eyes from the road.

He looked down at the cup holder. There, hidden amongst three one-dollar bills, and a whole lot of spare change, was a familiar object. A small, heart-shaped stud earring. Carved from what appeared to be a ruby, it was the kind of earring reserved for ears with three or more piercings. Tiff was the only person Tuck knew who had at least that many piercings. As a teenager, Tiff had gotten the standardized ear piercing done three times in each ear. It was two years after her third date with the nail gun, when she was eighteen, that she went and got her left nostril pierced. Then, on her twenty-first birthday, she took her love of piercings one step further, and got an industrial done on her right ear. That was back in college. When Tuck asked her if she had any tattoos, she'd laughed her crude, maniacal laugh (a laugh he'd come to adore), saying there were some things even _she_ was too scared to do.

He was mulling over what seemed to be a conflict with his lover's body modification ethics, when a horn blared angrily behind him. Annoyed at being dragged away from his most favored reverie, he narrowed his saucer-shaped eyes into thin slits. A long line of cars, the likes of which he had not seen a moment ago, now stretched for what looked like miles behind him. He was preparing to tell the impatient moron what they could do with their horn, using nothing but his rearview mirror and a certain body part, when he saw he was next in line for the toll. Feeling slightly stupid for getting so upset, he pushed the convertible forward, stopping briefly to pay the toll and collect his change. The gate lifted, ushering him onto the highway.

As he drove on, Tuck started to wish he hadn't taken Brad and Melody up on their invitation. It wasn't that Tuck didn't enjoy spending time with his brother and robot-sister-in-law. He loved it. He loved _them._ He just wasn't all that crazy about feeling like a third wheel. In other words, the only single one left in the family. Not that there was anything wrong with being single. There wasn't. Not unless you were hiding the fact that you actually weren't. Tuck hated lying to his family about his relationship with Tiff. Whenever his parents inquired if there were any girls he had his eye on these days, or Brad and Mel asked if he'd met anyone yet, Tuck's answer was always "No" or "Not really." He had promised Tiff they'd keep things casual. To her, that meant their relationship staying secret from those closest to them.

It was a request that had brought Tuck back to the start of junior high. To the time his best friend, Lon, had ditched him in favor of a group of older, cooler kids. When Tuck tried to tell Lon they were using him, Lon pointed the finger back at Tuck: "You're just jealous, because they think having a wolf for a pet is better than having a friend who's a robot!"

Three years past before the two spoke again. Until the ninth or tenth grade, long after Lon's older friends had graduated, and he realized that Tuck was the sort of friend who'd be there forever. The two were every bit as close now and they'd been at nine and ten years old. Working side by side at Donny's Dogs, and hanging out during their breaks and days off.

It was true what people said, Tuck thought. Time did heal all wounds. But the scars left behind never really went away. While his and Lon's friendship had managed to rebuild itself, Tuck was uncertain if the same would ever be said of his romance with Tiff.

He backtracked in his mind to the previous night. Remembered dropping Tiff at her apartment, and then speeding off, as though the cops were chasing him. The sight of those big, beautiful eyes, threatening to burst open with tears, was almost too much for him. But so was knowing that their relationship would never go beyond a friends-with-benefits type of deal. The blow had hit him harder than a barrel of bolts, left over from one of Mrs. Wakeman's experiments.

Why was Tiff always asking Tuck to call and text her, and responding to his romantic advances like any normal girlfriend? It didn't make any sense. _She_ made no sense. Maybe everything Brad had said was true. Maybe the Crust cousins weren't the sort of people who would ever really change or grow up.

Taking his eyes briefly from the road, Tuck consulted the clock on the dashboard. It was twenty past ten. Still early. The turn which would lead him into the city was coming up. He could go down it. Call Brad and tell him he would be late. Then he could head to Tiff's, and deliver her his ultimatum—and probably return her earring, too. If this was it, if he really was intent to end things with her, then it was better to do it now, in person, and not put it off any longer. It was certainly better than taking the coward's way out through a text or phone call.

It occurred to him then what Tiff had said the other night at the Flying Fish. How she'd made plans to accompany her friend to Tremorton Prison, where her friend's husband was being held on bail. She hadn't mentioned anything about what time she'd be leaving, or when she'd be back. She was probably on her way to Tremorton now. She'd said her friend's name was Pteresa, but Tuck had no idea where this Pteresa lived, or even what her last name was. And he hadn't the nerve to call or even text Tiff, saying that they needed to talk. It would be best to wait until tonight; she would be home by then. He could spend the hours in between cruising the city, as he figured out the best and most delicate way to break the heart of the girl who'd stolen his.

He continued down the highway. He was looking for a place to park and call Brad, when suddenly a truck supported by four monstrous wheels pulled out in front of him. His heart raced. "Hey!" The other vehicle crawled like a slug, which only served to fuel his anxiety, and release his anger. "Hey, you! Slow-poke! Yeah, that's right! I mean _you,_ you jerk-face! If you weren't the size of the entire freaking solar system, then maybe you'd actually _make it_ to wherever it is you're going…before the next century! Ya _think?!"_

Tuck couldn't help himself. He was in full road-rage mode. Fear had that effect on him. But that was okay. When he was angry, he wasn't thinking about being scared, and that made it easier to cope. Especially when the origin of that unease was his childhood fear of giant wheels. He'd been five, when he let some friends talk him into squeezing himself inside the inner rim of a monster truck wheel they'd found abandoned in a junkyard. What he _hadn't_ let them do, and that he didn't realize they'd been planning to do all along, not until it was too late, was push the wheel down a steep hill. They'd let it roll unescorted, at top speed, for a full terrifying twenty-nine and a half seconds. Luckily, the experience had not caused Tuck to suffer any permanent damage. The only thing he'd sacrificed was his morning's balanced breakfast. Managing to crawl halfway out of the tire, he had disposed of two bowls of Crabbio's, a piece of buttered toast, and a glass of orange juice (no pulp) at the bottom of a tree.

That was more than fourteen years ago. Yet that same helpless terror Tuck had felt as a child remained. He avoided going to places like car dealerships and shows, even junkyards. When he got his driver's license, and started looking around at cars, he'd made sure to deal with only individual sellers—all the while holding fast to the hope that none owned any monster trucks or aforementioned wheels. He would sooner run screaming for the hills, than stand within ten feet of the one thing bent on souring his dreams.

The opportunity to escape the most recent maker of Tuck's strange but perfectly reasonable fear came none too soon. His heart, which threatened to rip through his chest like one of the creatures in his favorite series of sci-fi films, began to ease, as he pulled into an empty truck stop. After taking a minute to recover from his latest brush with terror, he reached for his phone. He tapped his brother's number, then set the phone on his knee. It sometimes took Brad a while to pick up. Leaning back in his seat, Tuck counted each droning, monotonous ring. He had just gotten up to five, when Brad's voice echoed from the speaker.

 _"Hiya, bro. What's up?"_

"Hey, Brad. I was wondering…if you and Mel were expecting me at any special time."

 _"Uhhh…"_

The pause was abruptly broken by the horrendous scream of another big-wheeled something, as it rumbled past the truck stop. With a meager shudder, Tuck pressed the phone to his right ear, and plugged the left with one finger. "What's that, Brad? I can't hear you!"

 _"I said it doesn't matter. Whatever time's good for you is good for us. And what's that noise? It sounds like a whistle. Are you at some kind of sports event?"_

"No. Just a bad connection." Not wanting his brother to become wise to the fact that he had actually been on his way, Tuck rattled off a hasty goodbye. "Look, Brad, I need to go. Pee. Bad. I'll see you guys later. Tell Mel I said hi."

 _"Will do. And Tuck?"_

"Yeah?"

 _"One more thing. Then I promise to hang up before you explode."_

"Shoot."

 _"Well, Melody has this human friend. Name's Allison. Really nice gal. Someone who's totally real and down to earth. She's your age and just your type. She works in the cosmetics department over at Thrift Mart._ Loves _superheroes and science fiction. She broke up with her boyfriend three months ago, but feels ready to start dating again. Melody thinks you two would really hit it off. She told Allison all about you. She wants to meet—"_

"What! Sorry, Brad!" Tuck proceeded to create a series of what he hoped were believable static noises. "But I can't"—more fake static—"can't hear you! Oh, man! The connection just got _really bad!_ I'd better go, bro! See ya!"

He added one final round of cacophony, before ending the call and shutting off the phone altogether. He tossed it over his shoulder, where it bounced off the back seat and landed soundlessly on the floor. Feeling the last of his nerves as they unraveled, he threw his face down against the horn shroud. It set off a deafening blast, one he was sure perked every ear within five miles of the truck stop.

* * *

Sebastian Radcliffe, Jr. swayed slowly back and forth on the swing, which hung suspended from the branch of the old oak tree. It may not have been as good as the swing and slide set he had seen at the Thrift Mart that one time, when Mommy took him shopping for school clothes. But just because his swing may not have looked exactly like one you could buy, that didn't mean it wasn't still great. And it was definitely better than not having any swing at all.

He remembered the day he had gotten it. The memory was as clear to him now as his first day of nursery school. The only difference was the lack of tears and made-up thoughts of being abandoned. Sitting on a log in the front yard, he had watched, completely entranced, as his father constructed for him a makeshift swing. All that were needed were a piece of plywood, some rope, a power drill, and, most important of all, his daddy's own two big strong hands.

A few weeks later, Ms. Binky, Sebastian Jr.'s teacher at school, had asked everyone to talk about their favorite memory. Standing at his desk, Sebastian Jr. had proudly and excitedly described the fun he had had spending time with his father. Being painfully shy and hopelessly reserved, he'd always found the idea of socializing with others a most ruthless activity. For him, starting a conversation, or even just taking part in one, could be as unnerving as getting a flu shot. It had come as a pleasant and most unexpected surprise to his parents, teacher, and friends—and most of all to Sebastian Jr. himself—when he had spoken so easily and openly about that unforgettable Sunday afternoon in his front yard.

These days, it was impossible to say for sure if Sebastian Jr. would ever share another happy memory like that with his father. The last time Sebastian Jr. had seen him was yesterday. He had kissed his son and wife goodbye, then left for work like he did every morning. Only he hadn't come home. That made Mommy sad. So sad that she'd cried. So sad that she'd sent Sebastian Jr. outside to play. She only did that when there was something she didn't want him to know, and he wondered what it was she was hiding this time.

Something about Daddy, and where he was. Sebastian Jr. was certain of it. When Auntie Tiff came over, maybe she and Mommy would tell him where Daddy was. Maybe it was Auntie Tiff Mommy'd talked to on the phone last night. He hadn't heard anything, because it was after Mommy told him to go outside. But he'd sneaked back across the mostly dirt lawn, and peered through one of the front windows, into the kitchen. Watched his mother pacing back and forth across the broken tiles, wringing her freehand in frustration. She'd been crying then. She'd been doing a lot of crying lately. More than he had ever seen her. He could tell from how the stuff she drew on her eyes every morning was constantly running down her cheeks in long, black streaks.

Mommy and Daddy fought all the time now. Sebastian Jr. could feel their anger, as it drifted through the air like steam on a hot summer's day. But just because people got into fights didn't mean they didn't love each other. He told himself this, on nights when he awoke to the sounds of yelling coming from outside his bedroom door.

There was one fight he remembered more vividly than the others. That had been last Saturday. Mommy was in the kitchen, making something that smelled like ham. Sebastian Jr. loved ham. His favorite was the kind with the honey glaze. He listened to the low creak the oven made as his mother opened it. Heard the slight clatter of metal as something was set on top of the stove. His mouth watered. How much longer? He looked up at the wall, at the long-handed clock, wishing for the zillionth time he was old enough to tell time.

He was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, in between the couch and coffee table. In his hands, he held two of his two-dozen or so _My Lovely Pony_ figurines. They were the miniature editions, the ones so tiny they fit inside your pocket. He liked them because he could take them to school on days even when there wasn't any show-and-tell. Daddy liked them, too, only for a different reason. It was because they weren't the ponies with the real hair—hair that Sebastian Jr. thought was soft and pretty like Mommy's, and that he longed to comb. But Daddy didn't want him combing girl's hair and playing with ponies. Those weren't the sorts of things boys did. Sebastian Jr. guessed his father must have a lot of friends who were boys, if he knew so much about what they did and didn't do. As much as Sebastian Jr. would have loved to have just one pony with real hair, that he could comb and style, he was glad at least for those he did have. Just like he was glad to have a swing on which he could soar through the air like his favorite pegasus pony.

He moved the ponies in a galloping fashion across the smooth surface of the table. They were being pursued by one of the villains from the TV show. Sadly, no action figure of the villain existed, so that Sebastian Jr. resorted to recreating them inside his head. One of the ponies was a pegasus, and the other a unicorn. The only way they could escape their enemy, he decided, was to jump off the edge of the table (which, in his mind, was really a bottomless cliff). Because only one of the ponies could fly, he put the one with the horn on that one's back. Getting to his feet, he held his hands with the ponies high above his head. He made a sound like wings beating back against a heavy gust of wind. _"Whoosshh!"_

The ponies had just narrowly escaped their fate, when all of a sudden, a loud crash thundered from outside the trailer. It was so loud and so startling, that it caused the ponies to fly right out of Sebastian Jr.'s grasp. They fell to the floor, and rolled underneath the couch. He wouldn't think to look for them until later that night, after his mother had tucked him into bed and said goodnight.

There was a quick flash, as his mother darted past him. He heard the front door swing open, then slam shut with a deafening bang. He followed her out to the porch. She was there, and so was Daddy. He was standing with the top half of his powerful body draped over the right railing. He had been mowing the lawn, and accidentally driven the mower into the side of the porch. Sebastian Jr. could see the hole. It was huge. Mommy was furious. She yelled at Daddy, saying he shouldn't have tried to operate heavy machinery when he'd been drinking. Then she told Sebastian Jr. to go inside. "Go straight to your room," she instructed, "and shut the door. Don't come out until I say so."

Sebastian Jr. went inside. But he didn't go his room. Not right away. He stood in the living room, leaning his back against the door. The window was open, and the sounds of angry voices floated through. He listened. He could hear Mommy and Daddy shouting about all sorts of things. The lawnmower and Daddy's drinking and how Mommy'd let herself go. "Go?" Sebastian Jr. asked himself. "Go where?" Was she going a trip? Would she go alone, or would they all go together, as a family? What if, when they got there, Mommy decided she liked it better than at home? What if she liked it so much she never wanted to leave? He might never see her again!

His tummy started to feel funny. The way it did whenever he worried really hard about something. Then Daddy called Mommy a bad name that made her cry. Throwing his hands over his ears, Sebastian Jr. raced from the living room, all the way down the hall. He didn't stop until he reached his bedroom. He went inside, shut the door. He crawled under his bed and cried. He cried for a long time, until he fell asleep. Then Mommy called him for supper and he went, using his shirt sleeves to wipe his eyes on the way.

He had seen his mother get mad again today. Not at Daddy or at him, but at the laundry basket. She'd thrown it hard against the floor, as if it had talked back to her. It made Sebastian Jr. think of how he would often throw down his backpack after a bad day at school. She'd spotted him then, staring at her through the living room window. Then the fear of being scolded for spying got the better of him, and he ran away.

He'd run straight to the front porch. Crammed his small body through the big hole Daddy's lawnmower had made. He stayed there for a long time. Until his arms and legs started to cramp up, and a pain in his lower back told him that he'd run away for long enough.

He squeezed back through the hole, his hands and clothing covered in mud. Imagining he was a friendly sea serpent in a story Ms. Binky had read to his class the other day, he crawled along the ground on his belly, flicking his tongue in and out. Circling the corner of the tiny porch, he soon found himself in front of the trailer. Pushing himself up onto his hands and knees, he saw his mother. She was sitting on the porch steps, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked calm. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she wasn't crying any more. She was smiling. It was that smile which set the heart and mind of her young son at ease. He clambered up the steps, and threw himself into her arms. They slipped around him, making him feel safe. She held him so close and so tight he caught the sweet scent of her favorite coconut shampoo.

 _Please come home, Daddy. Mommy needs you._ I _need you._

Even sitting in his swing, Sebastian Jr.'s concern for his mother had still not eased. He turned his attention to the sky. It was a clear bright blue, and had a few fluffy white clouds floating across it. He could see the whole trailer park from where he was. Well, maybe not the _whole_ trailer park. Six to seven trailers at best. It was a big community. 'Specially when the farthest he had ever gone by himself was to the mailbox at the edge of the driveway. He wasn't allowed to go any further than that. Not unless one of his parents or some other grownup he knew went with him. Mommy and Daddy had said so. Kids who went off on their own got kidnapped, or worse.

Sebastian Jr. wondered what could be worse than getting kidnapped. Not being able to watch cartoons was pretty bad. But that usually only happened to kids who did _really_ bad things. Like decide it was a good idea to play ball in the house. A window would get broken, which might meant no T.V. and no dessert for two weeks. It was a good thing Sebastian Jr. didn't much care for games involving flying balls. He was always terrified one would get too close and hit him. He thought harder. Oh! An even less fun thing would be getting sick on Halloween. Having to stay at home, while all his friends went trick-or-treating, was definitely one of the worst things he could imagine. Thankfully, it had never happened to him, or anybody else he knew. He hoped it never would.

While he considered these things to be very terrible indeed, they were not the worst. There was only one thing he could think of that was. Something that went beyond getting grounded, or getting sick on one of the funnest holidays of the year, or even getting kidnapped. And that was not knowing when or if his daddy was ever coming home.

* * *

 ** _Since writing Sebastian's scene, I have absolutely fallen in love with him and Pteresa as a couple. Even though they're completely dysfunctional and miserable. I won't say what all I've got planned for them and Sebastian Jr., but I will say this much: I just want to give Pteresa hugs! XD_**

 ** _In all honesty, I actually felt a bit guilty, for making them the only ones in the group to halfway resemble their future selves in "The Price of Love". (I say "halfway" because, in the "Twenty Years Later" segment, Pteresa looked more exhausted than clinically depressed, and we didn't even see Sebastian. In addition to being AU, "Confessions of a Former Queen Bee" is set ten years PRIOR to the ending in "The Price of Love".) It_** ** _just gave me more to explore and write about. Plus, I really wanted to take a stab at imagining what super stud Sebastian could have done that got him thrown in jail._**


	6. Reluctant Revelations

**Author's Disclaimer:** I do not own _My Life as a Teenage Robot,_ or any of its characters or places. They belong to Rob Renzetti and Nickelodeon. The character of Madison "Maddie" Prima, however, as well as all characters not appearing in the My Life as a Teenage Robot television series, belong to me.

 **Author's Note:** Hey, guys. It's been a while since I've been active on here. How is everyone? :)

As I mentioned in my last update, this next chapter was originally meant to be part of the last one. While the first draft did reveal pieces of Tiff's past - as well as a glimpse of her other family members - I ended up omitting them in the final cut. I simply felt they overshadowed the dramatic circumstances that I have her and Pteresa dealing with at present. However, I have set those details aside to include in a chapter in the very near future.

Until then, I hope you enjoy Chapter 6. ^ _ ^

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6:  
**

 **RELUCTANT REVELATIONS**

The Tremorton Trailer Park was stuffed smack dab in the the middle of some woods, on the outskirts of town. A poor but very quiet community, where most people made ends meet on a fixed income. So that when someone well-to-do like Tiffany Crust came calling, the citizens were less than welcoming. Tiff was sorely aware that they judged her purely for the kind of clothing she wore, and on the sort of vehicle she drove. Sometimes, if she were strolling up Pteresa's driveway, or while the two besties were sitting out on the lawn, trying to soak up some sun, Tiff would catch the eye of a passing neighbor. Being the sort of sociable, friendly person she was, she always did her best to engage them in conversation. Only it never seemed to work in her favor. Not when the other person made it so visibly clear that they wanted nothing at all to do with her. They would just stand there, not saying anything. Staring at her in a way she couldn't help but find creepy. Like a scene from one of those horror movies about the mysterious towns. The ones that harbor some sinister secret, often because of the punishment that will befall it if someone tells. When the protagonist arrives on the scene, they are regarded with mistrust and suspicion—all for the innocuous crime of being an outsider.

Tiff had serious doubts that the residents of the Tremorton Trailer Park were concealing anything ominous. After all, the possibility of flesh-eating bacteria in the drinking water was extremely far fetched. And creatures coming out of the woods at night to steal children was an idea best reserved for low-budget student films. Still, Tiff was unable to wash away the bad taste left in her mouth by the locals' perception of her. Perhaps this was simply karma's way of sticking it to her. That no matter how hard she had worked to turn her personality and her life around, it would never be enough to make up for her past as a bully.

The road leading to the trailer park seemed to go on forever. Due to an infestation of potholes, Tiff kept a steady hand on the cardboard beverage carrier beside her in the passenger's seat. She couldn't have non-fat lattes and a Graham Cracker Frappioto with extra whipped cream spoiling her fancy—and appallingly expensive—leather interior. Not when the dry cleaning bill alone would cost her twice the amount as a year's worth of car payments!

Even as her tiny body seesawed like a punching bag after being hit, Tiff was indebted to tighten her grip on the steering wheel. So far, no more episodes like the one she'd endured early that morning had occurred. She wondered how much longer she could hold out, before the constant bumping and swerving took their toll. Thankfully, her time to consider this was soon quashed, as the Radcliffe's trailer appeared from over a hump in the road.

Pulling into the driveway, Tiff spotted Sebastian Jr. He was perched like a parakeet on a piece of board, whose corners were secured by a pair of ropes, and the loose ends tied to a tree. ("'It's a swing, Auntie Tiff! Isn't it cool? My daddy made it for me!'") So immersed was he in the study of the dry, brown earth at his feet, it appeared that he'd emotionally detached himself from his surroundings. Not even the flashy magenta sports car, with its shiny black accents, could draw him away from the comfort and safety of his own little world.

Sitting there, inside the result of a career by which she earned as much stress as she did an impressive income, Tiff felt embarrassed. She was consciously aware of just how out of place her own vehicle looked, nestled amongst the battered pickup trucks and station wagons scattering the other properties. She hated herself for even considering that some jealous neighbor might come over, and vandalize her car, after she'd gone inside Pteresa's trailer

Brushing off her worries and insecurities, Tiff pushed open the driver's side door. Her leopard print clutch tucked under one arm, with lattes and Frappulotta safely in hand, she climbed out of the car. She set both items on the roof and gently shut the door. Fishing her keys from her handbag, she located the key fob and pressed a button. Her action initiated a loud _"beep!",_ signaling for all the doors and trunk to lock.

The sound managed to attract the attention of Sebastian Jr. In his excitement, he leapt from the swing. Hitting the ground hands first, he managed to maintain his balance, and pull himself up to his full height of three-foot-eight. He looked to his right. There, standing beside a familiar vehicle in his parents' driveway, was a person he'd known from the day he was born. The one person he loved best in the world next to his mommy and daddy.

"Auntie Tiff!"

Arms outstretched, the little boy flew across the yard and over the driveway, clearly imitating one of the flying horses in his favorite cartoon show. Tiff squatted down, readying herself for their impending reunion. As her godbaby plowed into her waiting arms like a cannon ball, the force proved too great for the petite woman, and she toppled backwards onto the driveway. For some reason she could not explain, she began to laugh. Actually, what she was doing could not really be considered laughing. It was more like cackling. Boisterous and obnoxious, the cackle was one of the few remaining fragments of Tiff's old personality. Something she reserved exclusively for members of her old high school clique. Sebastian Jr. was the only one to whom his godmother—or 'auntie', as he was fond of calling her—had granted the privilege of knowing her secret side.

So immersed was she in her cackling, that Tiff failed to notice that she'd pulled Sebastian Jr. down onto the driveway with her. He was sitting directly on top of her chest, looking just as worried as he had when he'd found his mother crying. The front doors on quite a few of the trailers had opened, and several people were beginning to shuffle outside. From the safety of their porches and yards, all were hoping for a glimpse of the creator of the commotion.

"Uhh…Auntie Tiff? You okay?" Sebastian Jr. asked.

She stopped laughing. Opening her eyes, she smiled up at him. With an exaggerated grunt, she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Even with the added weight, it was easy; Sebastian Jr. weighed practically nothing. "I'm fine, home-slice. Jus' happy ta see you is all."

He smiled, reassured. "I'm happy to see you, too."

"Where's your mama at?"

"Inside." Biting his bottom lip, Sebastian Jr. dropped his gaze to the pavement. "She was crying a little while ago."

Attempting to ease her godson's worries about his mother ( _Worries that no kid should have,_ she reflected sadly), Tiff said, "I got a surprise for ya."

Sebastian Jr.'s eyes widened, and his mouth took the shape of something resembling a Crabbio. "What is it?"

"I'll show ya when we get inside. I got your mama a surprise, too."

He took this as his cue to stop treating his auntie like a piece of furniture. He climbed off her, careful not to accidentally dig a knee into her ribs, or mistakenly step on one of her hands. She followed suite, taking a moment to dust the rear of her distressed skinny jeans. Meanwhile, Sebastian Jr. stood quietly by, smiling in anticipation of the surprise he'd been promised.

Realizing that the commotion erupting from the Radcliffes' driveway was not the work of an escaped mental patient, Pteresa's neighbors began to return to their homes and personal businesses.

Fetching the items she'd placed on the hood of the car, Tiff was unaware that one person had remained to watch her. As she turned back around, she came face to face with the person to whom her presence was as much a curiosity as a painting in a museum.

This 'person' was a little girl, one whose age Tiff estimated to be about seven or possibly eight. The girl's long mass of hair was in need of a thorough brushing, and her clothes were ragged. One of her shoes had a hole so large that her big toe was poking through. She was sucking on an orange Popsicle, the majority of which was running down her chin and staining her white tank top. She was standing at the edge of the yard that neighbored the Radcliffe's driveway. Tiff smiled at her. The girl smiled back, revealing several gaps in between her teeth.

The child's affable demeanor reminded Tiff that the only people who'd ever been unfriendly to her here were all adults. Never any kids. As though possessing some sort of psychic ability, a hard and haggard-looking woman suddenly appeared before the girl. Seeing where the child's eyes were, the woman scowled at Tiff. She immediately felt the physical sting of familiar hatred drilling into her like rusted nails. The woman tugged violently on the girl's skinny arm, forcing her to drop her Popsicle. As the woman dragged her away, the little girl managed to wave back at Tiff from over her shoulder. Looking down at the wasted treat melting in the grass, Tiff imagined that this was exactly how homeless people were made to feel.

* * *

Setting the cardboard carrier down on the Radcliffe's scratched and battered coffee table, Tiff saw it. An ashtray, overflowing with soot and what had to be at least a dozen cigarette butts. The air was stifled by the heavy scent of tobacco. Evidence that Sebastian's incarceration had spun Pteresa off on one of her compulsive smoking benders. Tiff hated the idea of her friend smoking so much, and voiced her concerns regularly. Pteresa, whose hard-headedness had remained undeterred by her depression, would simply laugh it off. "You're letting that sassy attitude of yours speak for you again," she'd accuse. "It might work on your little nineteen-year-old secretary, but I'll be damned if I let you speak to me like that. I'm your friend, Tiff, not your employee. If I wanted a lecture, then I'd watch one of those infomercials with the closeup of a diseased human lung."

Every time Pteresa opened her mouth, it sounded as though she were lip-synching a chain-smoking bus driver from New Jersey. Tiff had tried once to talk her into quitting. She'd even gone as far as to use Sebastian Jr. as a pawn, in retaliation against one of his mother's overly theatrical tirades. But Tiff's good intentions had backfired horribly. Instead of being appreciative, Pteresa had grown angry, and ordered Tiff out of her trailer. "You think just 'cause you became some big shot career woman with a posh apartment and expensive car," Pteresa had shouted from the front porch, "that it gives you the right to tell others how to live their lives. Well, I've got news for you, missy. If it wasn't for Mommy and Daddy paying for all those fancy college courses, you'd be just like the rest of us: ORDINARY!"

After slamming the door in Tiff's shocked, wounded face, Pteresa had promptly burst into tears. She spent the next two days wrestling with her feelings, deciding which was more important: her pride, or what was nearly two decades worth of friendship. On the third day, she finally found the courage to call Tiff, and apologize for being such a witch. Once she'd been assured that she was nothing of the kind ("Ain't no biggie, P. I get the same way whenever I'm PMSin'") Pteresa admitted, through hiccuped sobs, that she'd started smoking as a way to reduce her weight. While the confession had temporarily freed her from her negative self-image, it had unremittingly provoked Tiff's unfavorable opinions of Sebastian.

Leaning back against the couch, Tiff felt something cold and sharp jab into her side. Reaching behind her, she brought out a mangled beer can that had wedged invisibly between the cushions. Fighting the urge to mutter some crude phrase regarding the person responsible, she set the can down on the table with a controlled sigh. Turning her attention to Pteresa, Tiff said casually, "So. How many packs a day you up to now?"

Her aim was not to be judgmental. She clung to the faint hope that if Pteresa could come up with a number—and hear the sound of her own voice _saying_ that number—then maybe she would give some serious thought to finally ditching the cancer sticks. An unlikely possibility, but when it came to the people Tiff loved, she was willing to try anything.

Pteresa was standing over a mountain of clean laundry she had dumped on the couch shortly before Tiff arrived. Completely submerged in the task of folding her son's red and white striped t-shirt, Pteresa sighed. "Does it really matter? Now that my husband's been fired from his job, it's not like I'm gonna be able to keep up the habit."

"Has Sebastian Jr. started askin' questions yet?"

"No." Pteresa let go of the garment she'd been folding. She seemed not to notice as it landed on top of her feet in a crumpled heap. Examining the pile of laundry that seemed to grow bigger and more overwhelming by the second, she added with a hint of bitterness, "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything about it to him."

Tiff couldn't help but take offense to Pteresa's accusatory tone. How dare she! After everything Tiff had done for her! Like all those hours of sleep she'd sacrificed, because Pteresa called her up at three in the morning, crying over Sebastian's infidelity. Tiff couldn't say she'd minded. Not when she was literally the only person Pteresa had whom she could count on indefinitely. Who else did she have in her life but a mother who'd abused her emotionally throughout her childhood, a cheating husband, and a legion of neighbors who refused to get involved with anyone or anything that made them the least bit uneasy. That being the case, Tiff would have expected her friend would show a little more appreciation.

"First off, I ain't played the gossip card since high school ended," she flared back at Pteresa. "Second, I can't figure why you'd even imply such a thing. But that ain't what kills me. What kills me is you think I'd actually do somethin' ta hurt my godbaby. When you know for a _fact_ I love 'im like he my own flesh an' blood! If that ain't the truth, then maybe you are jus' trippin'."

The former cheerleader didn't answer. Pressing her palms into the pile of clothing, Pteresa stared dejectedly through the large window over the couch. Saw a man she didn't know walking a black Labrador retriever at a brisk pace down the road. It suddenly hit her how much easier animals had it than people. If you were an animal, and didn't like the situation you were in, you could simply choose to leave. Wait for somebody to leave a door or window open. Then you could walk away and never look back. But it wasn't so simple for people. They had responsibilities. Many of which were living, breathing creatures who depended on you for everything, for survival. Pteresa thought of her father. A man whose parenting skills had been as lousy as his daughter's spelling skills. She couldn't remember what he'd looked like. Every time she tried, all that came to mind was a strapping figure with a face obscured by shadows. That was Delia's doing. She'd gotten rid of everything that served as a reminder of her failed relationship. By the time Pteresa was old enough to start asking questions about her father, all traces that he had ever been a part of her and her mother's lives were gone. Nothing—not even a single photograph—had been salvaged.

Although life had not exactly been kind to her, Pteresa couldn't imagine ever doing to her son what her father had done to her.

Lifting her apron to her face, the haggard housewife used the corners to dab at her eyes. She looked at Tiff. "I'm sorry," Pteresa croaked. "I didn't mean to accuse you. I know how much you love Sebastian Jr., and that you'd never hurt him on purpose. But lately I've found myself worrying a lot more about him."

"Why? What else ya got ta worry 'bout 'cept his daddy?" Tiff demanded.

Pteresa frowned. "I wasn't gonna bring it up. Because I'm not even sure it's all that big a deal."

"What ain't?" Tiff reached over and grabbed one of Pteresa's hands, urging her closer. "C'mon, girl. If this is about Sebastian Jr., then ya gotta spill!"

"Yeah. Okay. I know." Pteresa seemed to be trying to convince herself of this more than Tiff. Plopping herself down on the couch beside her friend, Pteresa folded her hands in her lap. "This all happened yesterday. Less than an hour after I dropped him at school. Sebastian wanted steaks for dinner, so I stopped at the grocery store on my way home." She paused long enough to observe Tiff as she rolled her eyes. "I'd just walked in the door when my phone rang."

"And?" Like someone watching a horror movie, Tiff leaned forwards, fists pressed against her thighs, anticipating the part where the killer's identity is finally revealed.

"And it was Ms. Binky," Pteresa concluded, "insisting that I come and get Sebastian Jr."

"Was he sick?"

She shook her head. "Not sick. Hysterical. He was crying so much and so loud he was scaring the other kids. Not even his teacher could calm him down. 'He just keeps asking for _you,'_ she said."

"Dang! What did y'all do?"

"I jumped in the car and raced back to the school. I was in such a hurry I ran two red lights! I'm surprised I didn't get pulled over."

"Samez. Was Sebastian Jr. still cryin' when you got there?"

"He was, but stopped the second he saw me. When I asked what was wrong, he said he just missed me. Ms. Binky seems to think there's more to it, though, and so do I. One minute, he was just fine. Sitting on the floor, building something out of Stego blocks. Then, for some reason, he just started crying. 'Does Sebastian Jr. ever exhibit this sort of behavior at home?' Ms. Binky asked me. 'Never,' I said, offended. 'I can assure you, Ms. Binky, that these are not the sort of values me and my husband teach our child. One of the other kids must've said something to set him off.'"

Tiff shook her head. "That Ms. Binky's been teachin' since we was in nursery school. I wouldn't go by nothin' she says." With a hearty cackle, Tiff added, "The dinosaur."

"It isn't so much her thinking that there's something wrong with my son," Pteresa replied. "That isn't what bothers me. What bothers me is that she may be right. Do you know what Sebastian Jr. asked me on the drive home?"

"What?"

"He asked 'Mommy, are you gonna die?'"

Unremarkably, Pteresa broke down in loud, anguished sobs, burying her face in her apron. Tiff could only stare. So floored was she by this confession that she could think of nothing to say or even how to console the other woman. She had never been very good when it came to comforting people who were upset. Mostly because nine out of ten times _she_ was the reason for their distress.

"Where would he even _get_ the idea to ask me a question like that?" Pteresa wailed.

Tiff shrugged. "TV, maybe? A commercial?"

"When the only television shows he watches are _My Lovely Pony, Awesome Time,_ and _The Power Pup Friends?!"_

"Hey, girl, hey." Tiff couldn't take it. Even if her attempts at comfort were defeated, she would rather feel like a loser who had tried and failed, than one who had sat uselessly by on their duff, while their best friend reenacted the meltdown of a five-year-old boy. Scooting closer, Tiff put an arm around Pteresa, letting her sob into her shoulder. "Don't go gettin' yourself all rattled up. He coulda got that idea from anyplace. Prob'ly another kid too young ta know when they be actin' a fool."

Pteresa nodded. "I guess you're right. When I asked what would make him think something like that, he refused to answer. Just stared out the window and sucked his thumb. So I dropped the subject then and there." She stared hopelessly at Tiff. "He only sucks his thumb when he's really upset."

A gust of silence swept through the room. One that somehow heightened the pungent mixture of tobacco and Pteresa's cheap perfume. Aware of the nausea starting to build in her throat, Tiff distracted herself by peering over the backrest of the couch, through the window at the Radcliffe's backyard. Sebastian Jr. was sitting cross-legged on the brown lawn, contentedly munching on a small bag of his favorite peppermint caramels after having drained his child-sized Frappioto. Tiff couldn't remember the last time she'd walked into Starstrucks, and resisted the urge to purchase a bag of the delicious but outrageously overpriced candies. Being so totally focused on her career, she had serious doubts that she would ever have children of her own. But it didn't matter. Whether or not that day ever came, she was determined to spend her life spoiling her godson rotten…or as rotten as his mother would allow. Then again, it was quite impossible to picture Sebastian Jr. being anything less than delightful.

Watching the little boy offer a caramel to the huge stuffed panda bear sitting beside him, Tiff's heart swelled. The toy had been a gift from his favorite auntie on his first birthday. So attached was Sebastian Jr. to his special friend, that he grew anxious and teary-eyed if he happened to misplace it. Considering its size, such happenings proved infrequent. On the other hand, if such developments did arise, then everyone was expected to carry out the sort of thorough search conducted by police when a child went missing.

"He seems fine now," Tiff remarked to Pteresa, who had joined her in observing Sebastian Jr. "Maybe he was jus' havin' a bad day yesterday an' needed you."

"Maybe. But I'm still worried. I'm even thinking about taking him out of school."

Tiff stared at her. "You serious?"

"What else can I do? If my child's having meltdowns, then no nursery school in Tremorton let alone the world is gonna take him."

"But nursery school's important! It's where kids learn stuff like social skills an' makin' friends." The words sounded like they'd been ripped straight from the latest edition of _Parenting for Idiots._

"Ms. Binky suggested I take him to see a counselor," Pteresa said.

"D'you think that's really necessary? I mean, if ya _are_ that worried...maybe it would be good ta get 'im some help."

"I think so, too. There's only one problem."

"Say it."

"Sebastian. He doesn't believe in therapy, or that mental illness even exists. He says it's all in your head, and you can control it if you just try."

"Oh, bull! Who's he ta go an' tell somebody their problems ain't real? He don't know what it's like bein' five an' thinkin' you gonna lose the only real parent you got!"

"Ain't it the truth." Pteresa sighed deeply. "That's why I came down on you the way I did. Out of for my son. For the way he'll feel about himself if any of this gets out."

"He's a little kid, Pteresa. He won't guess anything's up 'less you give it to 'im straight."

"What about you?" She forced a smile. "What are _you_ up to these days?"

Caught off guard by the abrupt change in subject, Tiff stared, her jaw comically slack. "What'choo mean by that?"

"Duh! I mean what do you do when you aren't with me and Sebastian Jr.? Or working yourself half to death at _Fashionista?"_

Tiff considered the question carefully. Weighed the pros and cons of revealing the relationship she'd been carrying on with the much younger Tuck Carbuncle for more than a year. How she could expect to arm herself against the judgments and criticisms she was certain her best friend would inflict upon her.

"I don't believe it," Pteresa said slowly. "Like I seriously, completely, _totally do not believe it."_

"What?"

"You're speechless."

In a hasty flash, Tiff raced out of the living room and into the narrow hallway. Looking at it now, she wondered when it had ever stretched the length of a football field. But the question was not enough to overwhelm her. If anything, it helped her to gain more speed. She dashed passed three doors, behind which lay the bedrooms and linen closet. Continuing onwards, she soon spotted a fourth door. It was directly ahead, less than three steps away. She flung out her hand, circled her fingers around the knob. She turned it, only to find it jammed. Frustrated, and with precious little time left, she threw her entire body as hard as she could up against the door. The impact, though not very strong, was enough to force the door open. Stumbling into the bathroom, Tiff nearly tripped over a run in the rug, and barely missed slamming her forehead against the tub. Luckily, she landed exactly where she'd wanted to be. On the floor, next to the toilet. Her head was spinning, but somehow she found the strength to scramble to her knees. Throwing open the toilet, she caught the heavy scent of lemon citrus cleanser and porcelain just before it all came up.

Once it was over, she stayed where she was, too weak to move. Her eyes remained closed, while her head hovered over the bowl like a space ship hovering above the earth. Her slender arms hugged the sides of the toilet, as though letting go would cause her to fall down, down into a bottomless chasm.

When at last she found the courage to open her eyes, she was relieved to find that nothing around her appeared to be tilted at odd angles. While she could sense the beginnings of a monstrous headache approaching, whatever madness had been going on inside her a moment ago seemed to be calming down.

"Tiff! What happened?" Pteresa was standing in the open doorway. "Are you all right? Did I say something to upset you? I did, didn't I?" Her face crumpled, and her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so stupid!"

"No you ain't. You're fine. I'm fine. We all fine." Uncurling her left arm from around the toilet, Tiff reached up and flicked the nozzle. Once the sound of flushing water had faded, she added, "I jus' got sick all of a sudden. It was the craziest thing. But I feel better now."

The bathroom provided barely enough adequate space for one person, let alone two. Pteresa carefully squeezed her voluptuous frame in between the narrow space separating Tiff and the towel rack. Taking a seat on the edge of the bathtub, Pteresa leaned forward, her small hands framing her lovely, heart-shaped face. She eyed Tiff thoughtfully. "If there was ever anything you needed to talk about…anything at all, no matter what it was…then you know you could come to me…right?"

Tiff exhibited an exhausted smile. "Girl, why you goin' all sentimental on me? You talkin' like I robbed a bank or somethin'."

Pteresa saw no humor in her friend's words. "It's just that you've been like this for a couple weeks now. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"How tired you've been. Like last week. When you came over to binge watch _Housewives In a State of Desperation_ with me. I left the room for five minutes to make popcorn." Pteresa lowered her hands and gripped the sides of the tub. Sitting up straight, she cried out, "I came back and you were asleep!"

While the sudden rise in tone had startled Tiff enough to pull back, her response was nonchalant. "Big deal. I work eighteen-hour days, five days a week. By Friday, I'm beat worse than a featherweight at a heavyweight wrestlin' competition."

"It was last Sunday," Pteresa corrected. "You had the day off."

"So what? You sayin' I don't got a right ta be tired?"

"Oh, Tiff, come on. You know that's not what I'm saying."

For once, Tiff felt her patience for the passive, overly sensitive Pteresa waning. "Then quit stallin' an' say what it is you gonna say already!" Tiff snapped.

Pteresa tilted her head to one side. For a moment, Tiff was convinced she was going cry. _Uh-oh. Now you gone an' done it._ She was mustering up the nerve to apologize, when Pteresa beat her to the punch. "I realize this may be hard for someone as tough as you are to hear," she said boldly, "but I do worry about you."

Regardless of her problems with her family, and the annoying habit she had of berating herself when it came to other women (including her best friend), Pteresa's empathy for those around her had never been stronger. She was someone Tiff wished she could emulate. Even if it meant getting bumped down from editor-in-chief, and becoming personal assistant to Mr. DuPont. Logically, the idea of arranging business meetings and overseeing her boss' finances were the sort of mind-numbing tasks that would drive Tiff insane. And poor Pteresa would never last a day as editor-in-chief of _Fashionista Magazine._ The stress and hours spent away from Sebastian Jr. would be enough to give both mother and child nervous breakdowns.

"Sorry for hollerin' at ya like that, P," Tiff said. "But you're right. There _is_ somethin' goin' on wit' me. Dunno if it's got anything ta do wit' why I keep gettin' sick, though."

"Well, if whatever it is has got you upset enough to puke," replied Pteresa graciously, "then you'd be doing yourself and your insides a world of good if you talked about it."

The headache, which had over the last few minutes reduced itself to a dull throbbing in the back of Tiff's skull, abruptly intensified. She doubled over in response, fearing for a second she might be sick again. Once the feeling had elapsed, and she was able to raise her head, she consequently found herself staring into the distressed blue eyes of Pteresa.

Hoping to avoid any unsolicited flutters of pain or nausea that might still be lurking, Tiff delivered her answer with quiet ease: "It all started 'bout a year ago, right after I found myself fallin' for this guy. Not jus' any guy. He's younger. Legal. But a baby compared ta somebody our age."

The redhead raised a curious eyebrow. "How many years younger are we talking?"

"Seven."

"Soooo…" Holding up both hands, Pteresa tilted back her head, casting her gaze to the ceiling. She began to count backwards from twenty-six, tapping off each number on one finger. "…Twenty-six…twenty-five…twenty-four…twenty-three…twenty-two…twenty-one…twenty…" She smiled. "Okay. That makes him what? Nineteen? No big deal."

"But it is a big deal!" Tiff contradicted. "He still lives wit' his mama an' daddy an' got a big brother who don't exactly _like me!"_

Pteresa remained calm. She was used to Tiff's overly exaggerated—and overly loud—outbursts. "Chill out, Tiff. I'm sure it can't be as bad as all that."

Tiff took Pteresa's optimism in much the same way as a C plus student would take being told they will one day be president of the country. A nice thought, but hopelessly unrealistic. If Tiff's suspicions of her come-and-go illness proved correct, then the life she had spent nearly a decade building for herself would be ripped away from her in a single instant. She thought she'd lost everything when she and Brit had had their falling out. But Tiff was neither ready nor willing to endure another painful loss a second time around. And her parents! What would _they_ think? They took such great pride and pleasure in bragging to their friends about their 'celebrity daughter'. Being highly respected citizens, as well as very traditional thinkers, Curtis and Rosalind Crust would be devastated, when they found out their eldest child had strayed from their realm of ideals.

"I _know_ that look!" Pteresa exclaimed. Tiff flinched uncomfortably under the weight of the accusation, but said nothing. She knew what was coming. "That's the look I had when I found out I was pregnant!"

Sitting with her shoulder pressed against the front of the toilet bowl, Tiff counted the number of blue tiles on the floor. If she could get up to twenty or even thirty, then maybe the thing she wanted so badly not to be true wouldn't be.

"It's him, isn't it?" Pteresa asked softly. "This younger guy. He's your baby daddy."

Tiff didn't take her eyes from the floor. _"If_ I'm even preggers. There's no way ta know for sure 'til I take a test."

"Then we'll go and get you one."

She let out a dramatic sigh. "I can't b'lieve this is happenin' ta me!" Flopping backwards onto the floor on her elbows, Tiff stared in dismay up at the ceiling. She noted a stain there, and its resemblance to a smiley face. "I mean, can ya really picture me bein' somebody's mama?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions here. Like you said, it could just be a false alarm."

Pteresa didn't think so, but there was no sense in saying anything that would push Tiff even further into a panic. Particularly when the source of that panic was something that could be rectified, if that was the direction she chose to take. While their views on such matters were as different as night and day, Pteresa and Tiff loved and respected each other far too much to ever let something like personal views get in the way of their friendship.

After a moment's hesitation, Pteresa said, "Would it be considered prying to ask the name of your mystery man?"

Not taking her eyes from the ceiling, Tiff replied in a faraway voice, "It's Tuck. Tuck Carbunkle."

Pteresa's large doe eyes looked even larger as they widened behind the lenses of her glasses. _"Brad Carbunkle's little brother?! He's_ the father of your maybe-baby? Isn't he like _twelve?"_

Like a bottle rocket Tiff shot up from the floor, apparently no longer a victim of fear and queasiness. "Girl! We _had_ this discussion not five minutes ago! Tuck's nineteen! He be turnin' twenty come June!"

"Oh my Gawd!" Pteresa sounded even more like a chain smoking bus driver from New Jersey when she was excited. Throwing her palms so hard against her cheeks that it sounded like she'd slapped herself, she declared, "I was _wrong!_ This _isn't_ a big deal! It's _HUGE!"_


End file.
